Vignettes
by chezchuckles
Summary: A collection of prompts received on tumblr, all consisting of only three words. (excludes the Dash related fics, which I will post separately). If a prompt had a follow-up scene, those will be posted all together in one chapter. A scene with season 8 spoilers will be noted at the beginning of the chapter.
1. baby walk Beckett

**Vignettes** :  
a collection of three-words tumblr prompts

* * *

#1

* * *

Baby walk Beckett

— STELLARPUFFIN

* * *

"Shh, hush, it's okay," he mumbled, eyes barely held open in the dark hours of the night. The newborn mewled in his arms as Castle bounced him, walking back and forth in the living room.

He was trying to give Kate a few extra hours. Trying. He was a good husband, and she was a busy woman, and damn, if this baby wasn't going to kill them.

"Come on, Beckett," he murmured, only to have his soothing interrupted by his cracked-jaw yawn. He was so tired. He shook his head, trying to clear his fuzzy brain as the little boy whined anew, apparently not impressed with his father's exhaustion. "I'm too old for this, you know."

That prompted a full-throated cry from the boy, and Castle jiggled him a little more, cupping the back of his head as he walked around the room.

"Okay, okay," he apologized. "Colic is no fun, I know. Hush."

"I don't think telling a Beckett to be quiet is really gonna work, Castle."

He turned his head and saw Kate struggling through the doorway, hair brushing her chin, eyes glassy. He tried to smile at her, but the boy cried again, whimpers and unhappiness in his every fitful noise.

"Here," she said, stumbling into him before the couch. "I'll take him." The transition from his arms to hers was always awkward, especially sleep-deprived, but this time the fumble was enough to make the boy open his eyes wide and go very still. "Hey, Beck, what's wrong now, huh?"

Just her voice and her nearness was all it took. Beckett's gaze on his mother was rapt, and Castle thought, not for the first time, they should've named the boy after him instead - they were so alike in their absorption with Kate.

"Shut up, Castle," she said quietly, in that baby-quieting voice that always did the trick. "You already have on named after you."

He chuckled softly and leaned in over their son, kissed the dark hair fuzzing his head. "I didn't say a word, Kate."

"You were not saying a word very loudly."


	2. hey it's okay

#2

* * *

"Hey its okay."

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

"Hey, it's okay," she said, catching his face in her hands.

Was he crying? Oh, Castle.

He nodded against her hands, eyes averted. Swimming. She stepped into him and pressed herself close, told herself it would be wrong to laugh. It would be wrong.

"It's okay," she said again, sliding an arm around his neck and squeezing. She put a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, against the downturned lips. "I'm fine, we're fine. Where one door closes, another opens. All that."

He cleared his throat, not a word yet. It had really affected him.

"I'm sorry we wasted so much money-"

"No," he said gruffly. "Not a waste at all. Worth it. The experience. Right?" Asking her as if he wasn't sure yet.

"Worth it, Castle," she murmured. She was glad now that she'd drawn him into the campaign's office. Behind closed doors. She kissed him again. "At least I can say I did it. Now we know."

"I was so sure you were going to win," he sighed. His arms tightened around her waist. "You're extraordinary and if they couldn't-"

"Hey," she said, knocking her cheek against his. "It's okay. To tell you the truth, Castle, the longer this went on, and the more shit we got flung at us, the less I wanted to do this. So it's a good thing."

She stepped back and he seemed solid once more. Handsome in his expensive suit and purple tie, his hair ruffled now where she must have run her fingers through it. He was giving her a wan smile, but he was better.

"So what now, Beckett?"

She lifted her shoulders in a little shrug, curled her lips at him. "I think this one's your choice. What do you want to do?"

Castle grinned. "Well, since you're technically out of a job, how about we find a nice private island and get lost?"

—–


	3. Since you asked

#3

* * *

Only three words, huh? How about... "Since you asked..."

— CASTLEINCALIFORNIA

* * *

"Since you asked…"

He pressed play and she laughed, breathless, as the music drifted on the salty air. She wiped the tears from her cheeks, swiped again when they still came, the song barely a murmur over the sound of the ocean.

Castle was smiling that deep, beautiful smile of his, the one that crinkled his eyes with love, and still the tears slid down her cheeks because _Castle._

"I can't believe you did all this," she laughed, careful of her eyeliner.

"Just getting you back," he answered, that demure shrug of his that was anything but.

Kate stepped past him to the porch railing, laid her hands against the wood. still warm from the dying day. Illuminated on the vast green lawn was their gazebo, sparkling in a thousand fireflies of light, and beyond that the dark sky that met the susurrating ocean.

She bit her lip and turned to look at him over her shoulder, lifting her arm and catching him by the sleeve. "Come here, babe."

He came with her to the edge of the porch, their fingers winding together as his chin landed on her shoulder. She'd been dropping hints for weeks that she wanted to go dancing with him, trying not to be obvious, knowing she was being obvious anyway. It was a big deal, but she hadn't wanted _that_ big a deal. Something just them, something romantic. She had dressed up tonight with high hopes, glad for once that Castle always made the grandest gestures.

She hadn't quite expected this - dancing under the stars, the lights, the gazebo where they'd been married. Big but still intimate. He always had a way of surprising her.

"You want?" he murmured. His voice in her ear was rough, ready. She shivered and squeezed his fingers between her own, drawing both arms around her waist and holding him there.

"I want," she answered. But there was something to the taste of anticipation, of letting her eyes follow the lines of lights strung over their wedding gazebo turned dancefloor.

"Whenever you're ready," he laughed quietly.

She was ready. She just wanted to make the most of every moment tonight.

Their first anniversary.


	4. baseball first pitch

**#4**

* * *

Prompt: Baseball, First pitch, Kate Beckett.

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

"I _suck_ at baseball, Kate," he sad in a panic. "I don't do athletics." Castle scraped a hand down his face and tried not to think about how he wanted to throw up. "I mean, the best I got is _yay, sports! Do the thing! Win the points!"_

"That's not quite how baseball goes," she answered, a press of her lips that meant she was actually amused.

"You're laughing," he accused. The car was _hurtling_ through traffic. There was no way they were going to be too late to the game to make it.

"No," she drew out. "Not laughing."

"You _are_."

"Castle, why did you agree to throw out the first pitch if you're so terrified of sports?"

"I'm not terrified," he squeaked. Castle cleared his throat, shook his head to get that back in control. "I am not terrified. Merely concerned. I may have prowess in bed, but that does not extend to prowess on the playing field." He paused, arrested by that interesting play on words. Playing field. He knew there was a joke in there somewhere but-

"You're usually so cocky," she murmured, a lift of her eyebrow.

He laughed, touched his fingers to his brow in an imaginary salute. "Very good. I couldn't quite come up with it."

"Come up?"

Castle laughed harder, thoroughly pleased now, realized he was a little more relaxed. "Thanks for that."

She sidled closer in the backseat, sliding her hand along his thigh. "You'll be just fine. Even if you can't throw, the catcher - or well, sometimes its a position player who wants to catch for you - the honor-"

"The _honor_?" Tension crept back into his shoulders.

"Point is, whoever it is - he's an athlete at the top of his game. He'll do everything he can to catch your throw. To not let you look stupid."

"Catch my… what if I can't get it _to_ the catcher?"

Kate opened her mouth, closed it.

"Oh, no. Oh, no," he groaned.

"Um." She rubbed two fingers over her lips. "It's the Mets so… not many people will see it?"

"The Mets are hot right now," he whined. " _Every_ one is watching them."

She blinked.

"I can't do this. You're doing it," he blurted out.

She stared at him. He stared back.

"What?"

"You can do it," he said, then rushed on before she could speak. "You're _good_ at throwing things. Just last week you threw that pillow at my head and totally got me."

"Castle!"

"Major force behind your throws, Kate. You'll at least get it to the end zone."

"Plate," she muttered. "Home plate."

"Right, yes. Home plate. See? I _need_ you."

"Castle, this is supposed to be for your literacy campaign, not-"

"But you do press for that all the time! See? It's perfect. You do it. You do it. You do-"

"Castle," she snapped, but he could see it in her eyes, in the flush across her face. She was catching his nerves. She _wanted_ to do it.

"Please," he said, wriggling closer to her, drawing his arm around her, nuzzling down into her neck at that place that made her gasp. He circled his fingers at her knee, dropped his voice to that suggestive, prowess in the bedroom tone. "Please, Kate."

"Castle," she groaned.

Oh, she was totally doing it.

"You are the _best."_

"You're the worst."

"Hey, you should call your dad. He'll want to see this."

Kate buried her head in her hands.

—–


	5. comfort happy tears

**#6**

 **A/N** : Prompt #5 was a Dash scene. It will be posted in a separate story.

* * *

comfort happy tears

— ANONYMOUS

(post 6x02 Dreamworld)

* * *

Muzzy sock. A sharp slant of light. The heaviness of his body.

Castle opened his eyes, blinking slowly, surprised by the sight but too dull to really feel it. Weighted down.

"Hey, you're awake," she whispered, and sat forward to catch his hand.

Castle swallowed hard to try and clear out his vocal cords, somehow rusty and underused. "Where-?"

"Hospital in Alexandria," she said. Her smile was tight, looked worn and too shiny.

"You okay?" he mumbled, making an effort to keep his eyes open.

She sniffed and her smile was watery. "You're alive. I'm perfect. How do you feel?"

"Heavy," he sighed.

"You can sleep," she said, leaning in against the mattress. Her thumbs circled around and around the top of his hand, dizzyingly alluring. "You should rest. Martha and Alexis went back to the hotel."

He grunted, remembering now. "Pi."

Kate gave a laugh, though it didn't sound so good. She was hunched over the side of the hospital bed, elbows on her knees, sitting on some kind of stool like she'd stolen it from the nurses' station.

He turned his head slowly and saw the two other visitors' chairs. Empty where they'd been vacated by his mother and daughter. But Kate wasn't sitting in either of those.

He moved back to look at her, really look, feeling more alive, more awake. She was curled in on herself, eyes troubled, sorrow pressing her mouth down.

Punishing herself, sitting in that chair.

He opened his fingers out, managed to stroke the inside of her wrist. "You should go too. Your apartment. A comfortable bed. Go home, Kate. Real rest."

She made a noise and he managed to open his eyes.

Distress flared through her and then was gone, shut down just that fast. If he hadn't opened his eyes, would she have let it swallow her? "Kate." He squeezed her hand. "I'm a big boy. Just be sleeping. Tired. You go home."

Her lips twisted, her gaze faltered. Her mouth opened and then closed again, lips pressed together. "But you're my home," she got out. Her eyes widened, round and disbelieving; she looked stunned.

He just felt stupidly happy. His grin sloshed over his face, loose and bright, and he tugged on her hand. "Mm, that sounds about right. Come on up here, Beckett. With me."

She grumbled, but he saw those two bright flames on her cheeks, the way her eyes slid away from his. She melted down from the stool and into the bed with him, at first sitting at his hip, being too careful.

"Lie down," he told her. "Won't be as comfortable as your own bed, but you asked for it."

She huffed a little breath but she did put her shoulder to the mattress, her knees drawn up. Still making herself small, as if she didn't wan to take up room.

He shifted until he could drop his arm over her folded legs, rubbed his fingers at her shin. She took a deep breath, like it was the first deep breath in a good long while, and her body eased closer.

The drape of the hospital gown suddenly felt wet at his bicep.

"You better not be crying."

She grunted and pinched his elbow, but her forehead came down to his shoulder, her eyelids pressing into the starched material. "Just - happy to have you," she muttered.

He grinned, though it was limp with exhaustion, though his facial muscles seemed disinclined to work. "You're happy."

"You're alive," she said again, her words mixing with the tears leaking out. Rough and a little sporadic. "I'm - you're alive."

The rumble in his chest was from bone-deep weariness, but he liked to think it was a hum of appreciation. He managed to raise his hand from her knees and he cupped the back of her skull, turned his lips to the top of her head.

"I'm alive," he answered. "I'm going to marry you, Kate. Don't want to miss out."

Her fingers came up and caught his hand, brought it down between them so she could clutch his arm to her chest. She very softly kissed the corner of his mouth. He couldn't even move his lips to respond, so tired he was.

"Sleep, Castle. Sweet dreams."

—–


	6. jealous ex boyfriend

**#7** & **#13**

* * *

Prompt: Jealous ex-boyfriend :)

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

#7

Oh, hell.

It was Tom Demming.

Castle folded his hands in front of him on the table and gave the man a winning smile. "Detective," he said, going for cheerful and bygones. "How's it going? Good to see you. Thank you for coming."

Tom's jaw flexed and he glanced around, the line of people behind him waiting to have Richard Castle sign their copies of his book. Tom looked undeterred by the crowd thought perhaps it had given him pause. He turned back to Castle and leaned in over the table, his voice low, urgent, fierce.

"You broke us up, you bastard, and now you just sit here?"

Castle froze. They'd broken up?

"You go on smiling-" His hands were clenched into fists on the table, his knuckles blanching white. "-doing stupid PR, signing your stupid book about _her_ , and yet you leave her high and dry."

"I what?"

"She told me she wasn't the easiest person to get to know-"

She had told him the same, that day he'd left for the summer.

"-and I thought to myself, _oh, wow, I'm one of the few who gets to know her_. I was honored. Like an idiot. And then she goes on, how I don't really know the kind of person she is, how there's issues - what _issues? -_ and then she dumps me. For _you_."

"Me?" Castle half-stood in reflex, knocking his thigh hard into the table, jostling the pyramid of books and making them crash to the floor. The pen rolled off, and Demming straightened up, his hands on his hips.

"You."

"I - no. You are absolutely wrong about that."

"Am I?" The Robbery detective had a tic in his jaw that won't rest. He looked ready to do damage. "You'd think a man would know, don't you?, when he's getting dumped by a woman as classy and beautiful as her. He makes sure he knows why."

"Me?" If Demming couldn't hear the incredulity in his voice- "What makes you think that Beckett has-"

"She all but said it. And damn, I'm jealous of you, Castle. I am. Can't help but. Only I come here thinking I'd see what I lost out to, figured she'd be here, the two of you cozy and close, and that a dose of reality would knock me straight again. Can't be pining after a woman who clearly doesn't want me, a woman I work with, no less. But here you are. Alone."

Here he was. Alone.

"What the hell are you doing leaving her?"

Castle grunted, one knee beginning to throb now, in an awkward position half risen from the table, the whole line of people waiting just beyond Demming.

"I didn't leave her."

"Well, you're not _there_ are you?"

He wasn't. He was here. He hadn't even checked in with the Twelfth in months.

Castle turned blindly to his personal assistant, gestured futilely to the crowd. "Do - something. I have to go."

And then he pushed past Demming and ran for the doors.

* * *

#13

Ex-boyfriend sequel fic. (Ha! I did that in three words!)

— WRITINGONTHECASTLEWALLS

* * *

"Castle." Her face was ashen, her movement arrested mid-air.

He jolted forward, momentum carrying him as it had since the encounter with Demming in the bookstore, but the next look on her face had him crashing to a halt.

She was absolutely panicked.

"Beckett."

"You're back." Her voice was both flat, empty, and also so poignant in that very lack. No emotion.

It was like being back at square one.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, wracked his brain for something smooth to say, some way to push his way back inside. To his place at her side. The chair was gone from beside her desk.

"Where's my chair?" he squawked. Winced as he heard himself.

She winced as well, more of a flinch, turning her head as if to scan the bullpen. "Detective Riley. He's new. Needed it."

"Oh."

"But he has a desk chair now. A real one. HR never filed the paperwork, but Espo found one in the basement. So."

"So my chair…?"

"Will be back," she said, nodding once. And finally her eyes came back to his.

She wanted him. Had. She had wanted him. She had broken up with Demming because of _him_ and he saw it now in her face. Her eyes. How she was holding herself together very carefully.

He'd done that.

And now he had no idea how to fix it.

—–


	7. Really, not again

**#8**

* * *

Really, not again

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

Something buzzed on the periphery of his dreamworld. Hummed.

No, purred.

He grunted awake, disoriented by the darkness alleviated only by the fine points of city lights through the slatted blinds. And warmth. Heat of skin at his back.

He'd been sleeping on his stomach, which he never did, and he wasn't in his bedroom.

Oh, _Kate._

He craned his neck and found her draped over him, her chest rumbling with laughter or happiness, sending vibrations down through him. Her hands played at his sides and he jerked, ticklish and aroused at the same time.

"Oh, Ri-ick," she sing-songed in his ear. "You awake?"

"Really?" he grumbled. "Not again."

"Mm, again." Her knee pushed between his thighs and he groaned, heat blooming fast under his skin, blood rushing. "Again, babe, you know you want it."

He growled and swiped an arm behind him, caught her hard as he turned. He rolled right over on top of her, skin to skin, flesh and heat and the perfect press of her against him.

"Again," he husked and dropped his mouth to hers, taking a kiss she moaned into.

Again.

He should inadvertently ignore her in favor of video games more often. 'Making it up' to her was really a win for him.

But he was going to be seriously exhausted tomorrow.

She growled and rocked up into him. "Promise to let you be tardy to work tomorrow. Now hurry. I've been watching you sleep for _ages_."

"Better not be an old man joke."

"Why? You gonna punish me?"

"Think I will."

—–


	8. is that -?

**#9**

* * *

I don't know if I should ask but how about: "… Is that porn?"

— JYLEAFER15

* * *

"…Is that porn?"

Castle jumped, jerked his head up so fast she was surprised he didn't get whiplash. As it was, he looked a little too deer in the headlights for her liking. And he'd covered his screen with his hands.

"Castle?"

"It's art," he said, a tiny crack in his voice.

"Art." Her eyes narrowed. Porn together was one thing. Porn alone was a problem. "It's art."

"Yes. No. It's - you."

She jerked forward. "Me? What-"

Oh.

Kate's mouth closed, her heart rate zipping a little as she saw the images between the spread of his fingers. "When - did you - I - oh. You saved them?"

" _Hell_ , yes, I saved them." His voice was that rough, edgy thing she only heard in bed. When he was on top. "You cannot make me delete these."

"They're not-" She gestured up. "In the cloud?"

His mouth opened and closed again. "The cloud is turned on, yes. I-"

"Castle," she groaned, dropping to the top of his desk.

"They're art," he defended, scooting his laptop away from her. "And you're sexy as-"

She darted out a hand and covered his mouth, but he'd been in the middle of words and his tongue touched her palm. She was flushed all over, and just that little intimate lick made her weak.

Kate leaned forward, pushed on his shoulders to roll the desk chair back, and then she climbed into his lap, straddling his hips. Castle was wide-eyed and lust-filled, and his fingers tightened on her hips as if he thought she might be teasing him, ready to abandon him.

"You can't keep them in the cloud," she whispered in his ear. A touch of her tongue to his neck to show him how it felt.

He shuddered.

"Castle, do you hear me? You can't save them to the cloud where any sleazy hacker can find them. They're art to you, and to me, but to the tabloids, to Page Six-"

"No, no, no," he chanted, his mouth dusting her throat, her jaw, her cheek. He liked the tease as much as she did, gave as good as he got.

"Delete them," she murmured.

"I want to print them in a book. A coffee table book, full sized glossy color-"

"Don't be stupid when I'm in your lap," she said, a touch of her lips to the corner of his, a touch of her hand. "You're not as funny as you think you are."

"No, not as funny, no," he said, his eyes beginning to grow deep. That high sky blue, the kind of full sun and color so rich it made her ache. "I'll delete them. I'll put them on dropbox-"

"You just don't get it," she growled, nipping his jaw.

"Oh, I _do_ ," he whispered back. "I get it. But Kate."

"External hard drive, Rick Castle." She rubbed slowly against him and he whined, his hips jumping up to meet her. "Say it."

"Ex-external. Hard-" He groaned and gripped her hip with one hand, used the other to slam shut his laptop and shove it aside. Before she knew what was happening, he was lifting her to his desk and stepping between her legs. "I'll show you hard drive."

—–


	9. Kate is shot (again)

**#10**

* * *

Kate is shot (again). Yep I cheated.

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

(So did I - cheat that is. A la Groundhog Day.  
Also, muppet47 did something like this but in Castle's point of view, so a huge debt to her story Than To Survive)

—–

"We gotta stop meeting like this," he cracked. And then his fragile smile cracked too. And then he fell apart.

She was drugged and brittle and shaking, but she was going to do this right this time around, she was going to figure it out. She wanted _out_ of this day.

"Castle," she rasped. Her eyelids were fuzzy, everything in cotton wool and so remote. But this day, this day; she kept coming awake on this day. It had to be for this reason. For him. "Castle."

He was standing awkwardly at the foot of her bed with his face turned away, and she had the sudden sharp pang that he was crying. Her fist in the sheets was weak, but her determination was strong.

She had sent away Josh hours ago. The moment she could.

"Castle, I know what you said. I heard you. I heard."

His eyes closed briefly and then came open again, and only then did he turn to look at her. The flowers were sweet-smelling on the bedside table, redolent of things too heavy for her, too much.

"Someone _shot_ me," she said numbly. "I can't…" She brought a hand up to her eyes and hid behind it, still shaking. He had said nothing, and it wasn't like him, but she had no energy or will left for it. For nice. Polite had gotten her this day all over again, stone-hearted had gotten her another wake-up call for her captain's funeral. Again and again, no matter how she changed things.

She had never done this before.

"Castle, I'm _bad_ at all of this. I _ruin_ everything, no matter how I say it or what happens. I ruin us."

She gasped when his hand grabbed her by the wrist, pain lancing through the bright white cotton that had been stuffed around her. But he didn't let go, and she couldn't unfurl from the hunched position.

Everything ached. Everything was pain. This hadn't happened before either.

"Let me decide if you're ruining it."

"I can't be for you what you need." She sucked in another tight breath, wondering if she might hyperventilate. "Not need. Deserve. What you deserve."

"I deserve you."

She couldn't catch her breath. "No. You. Are better than that."

"Two ex-wives might argue with you, Beckett."

"I broke up with Josh," she cried out, the pain so great she lurched forward, hard in on herself. "For me. For you. Oh, God, Castle, I can't breathe."

"You can," he said. His hands were warm, liquid heat on her shoulders, holding her up. "You can breathe. It's just your heart, Kate, not your lungs."

She whined, appalled by how weak she was, by how stupid it all sounded coming out of her breath. She hadn't said _anything_ right, and yet he was holding her up, a palm to her sternum, above her breasts, above the bullet's entrance, a palm to her back. He was straightening her up.

"See? Breathing already."

She took a deeper breath at that, felt the constriction ease.

He removed his hands. She sank back to the lifted head of the bed, agains the pillows, hair in disarray around her face, feeling sallow and wrung out.

His kiss came to her forehead and she groaned.

"I'll leave you to rest-"

"No, don't. Don't leave." Always her first mistake. Don't let him leave.

"Okay, I won't leave," he said. He sounded too calm. Too measured. "I won't. You rest."

She cracked an eyelid and saw the worry, the trouble swamping his face.

"Just my heart," she repeated. "Be better. Be stronger. Promise. Best - best I can do right now."

His face changed. His thumb stroked over her hand. "This is more than enough right now, Beckett. Just your heart."

She thought, suddenly, he wasn't talking about her being shot.

She thought, suddenly, she was going to wake up - tomorrow.

Finally.

—–


	10. I said legs!

**#11**

* * *

"I said legs!"

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

She feels his hands. All night, restless and edgy, thinking about him.

Thinking about ghost hunting with him, thinking about teasing and the chill down her spine, about the eager brilliance of his eyes in the dark and the slack belief in his face, how little boy and then how very much man-

-thinking about climbing him.

Thinking about his palms against the backs of her thighs, how he hoisted her up - attempted to lift her higher - and how he had no real traction, how his fingers slipped up-

 _oh_

-how his fingers against her jeans had such friction right between her legs and she gasped and it brought her whole body shockingly aware and upright, like electricity-

his hands, all night, so she can't sleep, can't close her eyes, can only wander her apartment like an irrational eidolon, phantom pleasure and pain, unrest in her bones.

She shows up to work shadowed. Pale.

Insufferably, he's bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, chipper. He makes her two cups of coffee, or perhaps he made himself the other and took one look at her and handed over both, but anyway that doesn't matter.

What matters is the joy of haunted houses in his eyes and the brush of his fingers against hers as he places the delicate white cup in her hands, making sure she has it.

 _You look like you need it,_ he says, and she inhales first the rich aroma and then takes a dainty sip to keep from scalding her tongue. _Did you not sleep? Ghosts haunt your dreams?_

And she lifts her eyes to grumpily deride his excess of cheer - he should know better by now to leave her mornings clear for silence until the caffeine has washed through her - but instead she can't.

She can't say any of it, can't bring herself to say the acerbic words that taste like decaf.

She can't because this is all he's got, and she knows it, and it's her fault.

"I said, 'legs', Castle." And then she waits a beat, long enough to let her eyes drop to his hands, lingering, longing, before she lifts her gaze to his. "I didn't get much sleep."

She turns back to computer but without noting the absolute _lust_ that has struck him dizzy.

Turn about is fair play.

—–


	11. happy birthday kate

**#12**

* * *

happy birthday kate

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

She stumbles into the elevator with the sleep mask over her eyes, her throat strangely constricted with feeling, Castle heat and excitement at her back.

"Please tell me you didn't pull the emergency stop," she says. She can hear how husky her voice is, she can hear how aroused-

"You've gotta stop," he growls, his hands firmly on her hips. "This was not meant to be a naughty birthday, Kate Beckett."

"I'm in a blindfold. If that's not meant to be naughty, why didn't you just use your hands?"

He clutches her hip bones hard enough to bruise, dragging her back against him in the muffled matte darkness. She knows exactly what she's doing to him, but now she feels it as well, and she reaches back to grip the material of his dress pants, trying to get him closer.

His mouth does wicked things to her throat, his breath cooling the trail he leaves so that she's vibrating with it. On the edge, that fast, but something about the darkness and the way he had to guide her down the hallway with his voice at her ear-

"Get off," he growls.

For a moment, her heart surges hard, equal amounts aversion and attraction. And then he chuckles.

"The elevator." He's so amused; she is not. "Get off the elevator, wife."

"Fine." She wriggles her hips back against him, or tries to, but he's already pushing her forward and she feels the more open air, actually senses the security man at the desk staring confoundedly at them. She doesn't care; she kind of likes it. She wonders where this has come from, wonders aloud a little just to push his buttons. "You should blindfold me more often."

"It's not a blindfold. It's a sleep mask," he bites off. Tension in his own voice, tension saying she's ruining his surprise and she needs to let him have this one. "Get your mind out of the gutter."

"But it's just so natural a resting place when I'm with you."

He laughs at that - he said something last week in bed (flat on his back, thank you very much) about seeing the stars from the gutter, trying to talk her into sex after an exhausting case (oh, he did talk her into, didn't he? She remembers that now. Yum.)

"Using my words against me. I approve."

"I try. Though I'm much better at using your body against you. Shall I demonstrate?"

"No," he gruffs. "Now _walk_ , Beckett."

She does automatically, part of her entirely astonished at how quickly she obeys with no guiding information (it's the lobby, she knows the layout, it echoes with her footsteps, she can basically avoid major obstacles, but still).

He has the door opened before she realizes they're that far, or perhaps it's the doorman, she can't remember who's on duty this late at night. The air is that strange electric combination of dead leaves and burning - like anyone here in the city has a real working chimney but someone must, because that's always been November to her.

"Alright," he says, sounding now as breathless and excited and anticipatory as she does. "Happy Birthday, Kate."

He nudges the elastic band of the sleep mask so she reaches up and pulls it off, her hair falling in her eyes and obscuring her view for a moment.

And then all becomes clear.

The beautiful black sports car gleams like an anti-star amidst the dull blur of city lights on the street. Sleek. Powerful. Beautifully smooth aggression in its aerodynamic curves.

"BMW i8," she breathes. "Hybrid."

Castle grunts, holds up the slick pocket fob key that looks more like a phone from the future than anything. "Of course it's a hybrid. I know you."

She _burns_ for this man. Instead of running to the gorgeous - absolutely amazingly gorgeous - luxury sports car waiting for her, and only her, at the curb, she turns and throws her arms around Castle, practically wringing his neck.

"I love you, I love you, oh, I never thought I could be bought with gifts, but, _seriously_ , Rick Castle, I love you for so much more than this but _this_."

And then she runs to the car, dragging Castle behind her, the black mask dangling from their tangled fingers.

—-


	12. New York Marathon

**#14 & #17**

* * *

new york marathon

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

She stood before the open armoire mostly naked, goose bumps rippling across her flesh as she reached for her running clothes. The sports bra required some effort, peeling it down over her chest and positioning everything, shrugging her shoulders against the straps as they dug into her bones.

She was unfortunately thin. The sports bra irritated the scar at her sternum, but she was pointedly not giving it any attention. No mirror on the door of the armoire, thank goodness, so she slithered into running shorts and top by rote, dreading the next few hours.

It was soon. Would be soon. She had participated every year since graduating from the Academy, an officer among the runners, and even the few years when she hadn't been required, as a detective, to police the event, she had done so anyway.

She was _not_ looking forward to this.

But she had signed up a year ago, not knowing she would be shot in the chest at a funeral, not knowing she would spend all summer barely able to breathe for the pain.

Still, Beckett stuck to her promises. She was just that kind of person. One and done. All that.

She swallowed roughly and pushed her feet into her still-tied Nikes, their neon yellow fabric garish in the too-early morning light. She'd had no coffee. The caffeine only made the ache worse.

Beckett pressed her knuckles to the scar, sucking in a sharp breath as it pinched something in her heart.

She was shaking, but she was pretending she wasn't.

She pushed her phone into the waterproof pocket in the back of her shorts, keys gripped tightly in her hand. She wished she could strap on her ankle holster; she wished she wasn't running as a cop, wished she wasn't running at all.

She swallowed again, clearing her throat, and took a final sip of water from the glass gone stale on her counter. A Luna bar from the canister pushed against the backsplash finished her out and she headed for the door.

Opened it.

Yelled as she jumped back, startled so hard she nearly slammed the door in hsi face.

But Castle caught it with the heel of his palm and the wood rebounded. He didn't reach in and yank her back on her feet; she had to fight for her balance with a hand pressed hard between her breasts, her breath ragged against the furious pulse of her heart.

"What are you - doing here?" she got out.

"New York City Marathon."

She was shaking so badly she wanted to close her eyes and have the ground swallow her up. But Castle. "I don't. Understand."

"I signed up on your team. Tried to throw some money at it, but you shamed me into agreeing to run it. Walk it."

She had? "I don't - remember that."

He gave her an ironic look. "You don't remember a lot."

Pain shot through her, startling starbursts within her bones.

He looked immediately contrite, and this time he did reach for her, slowly and carefully, and he brought her across the doorway into the hall. "Come on, Beckett. We'll do it together."

He said it like he didn't think she could do it.

Well, with the way her heart was slamming against her rib cage, she might not be able to.

He took the keys from her fingers and locked her door, handed them back in the hallway as if the decision had been made. She stared down at her keys for a moment and then darted her eyes back to his.

He was waiting on her. Halfway down the hall already.

She could do this. It was, yes, twenty-six point two miles. And that was a long distance, a journey. But he would be with her. He was right here.

* * *

"You've got this." Follow up to New York Marathon

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

Harlem was beautiful. She really - she was so very grateful she was here. Doing this. The boroughs were on their best behavior for the marathon, of course, so many people here, so many visitors, such tourist money coming in, but beside that, she enjoyed being faceless in the sea of people.

Her panic was still there, but it was low-level. They were crowded on all sides, but she was handling it. Thanks in large part to the man having a heart attack at her side.

"This was the worst idea on the planet," he wheezed.

Beckett dripped sweat despite the cool November weather, her hair plastered to her neck, the pony tail limp. But Castle. Wow. "You've got this," she said, though she didn't miss the irony. Her telling him that.

"I hate running. Why did I agree to this?"

"We're not exactly running, Castle."

He wheezed again, a little more loudly this time, a little more whine to it, and she realized suddenly that he was doing it on purpose. Melodrama for her benefit, to distract her from the press of the crowd, the height of the buildings with their sniper-perfect crow's nests lookouts.

"I'm doing the best I can," he grumbled.

"You're doing very well," she said softly, turning her head to catch sight of him. He was sweating only a little, his grey sleeveless tee stained under his pits and down his spine. He was wearing basketball shorts, his hair was spiky where he kept raking his fingers through it, and _damn,_ his biceps.

Wow.

His biceps.

She shook her head, her fingers tingling, her blood thrumming fast just under her skin, pulsing in her thighs.

It was just the run. Quickening her blood. Just the run.

And her chest was tight.

Every time - every time she thought - there was this sensation in her chest like she was dying. Every time she thought of him, like that, like - like lying under him with his body over hers, his fingers in her hair, love spilling out of his lips, she got panicky and tight and she might not survive.

"Hey, Beckett. What the hell? We're barely running. How are you so out of breath?"

She gulped down another breath, another, and fought to keep herself together. To breathe. To not see the high sky as another day earlier this summer, the buildings not as white cemetery markers, the man beside her not-

She couldn't do it. He was always going to be beside her. He was always-

"Breathe," he said quietly. "You got this."

She finally sucked in a breath, noisy and rattling, her steps faltering as she did, the relief so great she might cry.

And then she realized that Castle had her by the elbow, his grip soothing, his thumb rubbing back and forth in the sweat sliding down her tricep. They were barely moving now, barely pushing through the crowd, but somehow his body was a shield around her.

He was always going to be at her side.

She shied out of his grip, just enough, and their pace picked up once more.

After a few more yards, his wheezing started up again. His complaining.

And everything was just as it should be.

—–


	13. He broke her

**#15, #315**

* * *

He broke her.

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

Damn.

He broke her.

Castle lifted up on his elbows, got a knee to the mattress, glanced down at her sweat-slicked back. Slightly panicked. Only slightly. She was Beckett. She was badass. Surely he hadn't really?

And then she groaned and rolled over, messy and smudged and utterly dopey-looking, that grin on her face that she apparently had no control over, and he grinned back, dropping his hips against hers, relishing the shiver that went through them both.

She looped her arm around his neck and brought him down that much more, her mouth malleable and forming against his jaw. "You broke me."

The breath left him in a rush, laughter and eroticism both, and he nudged his chin into her to see her face again. "I did?"

"Mm." Oh, so dopey. Sated. Absolutely beautiful.

"You'll mend," he pronounced.

"Too bad," she murmured, lids half-closed. "Broken feels good."

He was sure by now that he looked just as dopey as she did. He must. She was tracing her fingers along his smile, deep in the creases. "This way, we can break you again and again."

Something shivered to life in her eyes. Sparked. Like the moment before she'd jumped him at his front door, that natural Beckettness that rebelled at submission.

And then he was on his back and she was over him, naked and glorious, and she had his hands pinned at either side of his head, her hair still damp with rain and sweat.

"No," she said, feral, dark. "Time to break you."

—–

 _Laura, can you do this as a three word prompt: I unbroke Beckett_

 _— KIMSTYL_

 _#315 (continuation of #15 He broke her)_

 _—–_

She woke sometime in the middle of the night, sore, pulse throbbing in her head. And between her legs.

A good sore. And a bad sore. All at once.

Kate licked her lips and shifted a knee in his bed, felt the ripple of pain across her back, her _ribs._ Hurt to breathe too deeply, though she hadn't noticed it when she'd come to him in the midst of this thunder storm.

The lightning still flared woefully from time to time. Illuminated his bedroom, his body. His arm out as if he had wanted to pin her to the mattress, keep her there.

She had to go to the bathroom. She ached in ways she couldn't yet distinguish, too exhausted, too grateful, too content.

Kate eased her foot to the floor and slid out from under the sheet. Her knee dipped when her weight came on it, and she had to clutch at the side table to keep her balance.

Breath rattled in her lungs. Her heart was thumping like a caught thing in a trap. She felt - faintly - sick, and she had to move away from the bed towards the bathroom, so carefully.

She closed the door after her and turned on the vanity light, winced at the harsh exposure and turned it off again. In the blessed cool relief of darkness, she used the bathroom, eyes closed, swaying for a moment on the seat.

She finished, cleaned up, shifted towards the bathroom sink.

That's when she saw him, backlit by lightning in the doorway.

Fear spiked through her, but then she saw it was him, shambling towards her in the storm-licked darkness.

"Your back is covered in bruises," he husked. His voice made her insides turn out, her spine shiver. "Kate, it looks bad."

She turned before the mirror, her hands still soapy, the water running, both of them naked in the bathroom. She saw in the mirror what he must have seen in the flare of lightning, the mottled black blossoms along her ribs and spine.

His hands touched her first, before his body was there, warmth and heat and electricity. She forgot to breathe, and then her lungs pinched, and the water washed away the soap from her hands.

He leaned past her and turned off the faucet, one hand catching her by the wrists. He had a towel, he was drying her hands and then caressing her spine very lightly with fingertips, with the towel's softness, with his lips.

She swayed again, lids slamming shut. His kisses touched a random pattern across her back, must be one for every bruise, and she whimpered as her breath seized and her heart kicked.

"Come back to bed. I can help."

She turned into him, her lips instinctively searching for skin, for his neck or that salted place at his collarbone where her teeth had already made their mark. "You already have."

"Pretty as that sentiment is-" His voice was a burr that nudged her feet into movement, following him as he tugged.

She crawled back into his bed and laid on her stomach in the cool, soft sheets. She heard him in the bathroom, rifling in drawers, bottles knocking into each other. He hadn't followed?

She opened her eyes just as he came back to her, she watched him squat down beside the bed. His hand was so large. It dwarfed her face, made her feel cherished. Or dominated. Depending on how he used it, how he used her.

She kissed the meat of his thumb and then nipped it, and his mouth curved into a terribly erotic smile.

His eyebrows danced. "I bet I can make arnica gel and Icy Hot sexy."

She laughed, and it hurt, but it made her lift her hand and touch his jaw, the soft skin under his chin. "It's a bet," she smiled.

He crawled right into bed over her with a happy little noise.

She closed her eyes and shivered as he got to work.

—–


	14. Josh, Countdown, kiss

**#16 & #51**

* * *

Josh, knockdown, kiss

— ANONYMOUS

(author insertion: Countdown)

* * *

"I kissed Castle."

His head whipped around, that dark delineation of his eyebrows. Raised. "You did what?"

"I kissed Castle," she said again, fingers laced together in her lap. He came back to stand before her on the couch.

"You wanna run that by me one more time? Because I could've sworn you said-"

"I did. That's what I said. He kissed me. And then I kissed him. Though maybe it could be all one thing."

"You're joking." He was looking at her like she couldn't possibly have done that to him. Not to _him_. Not to Dr Extraordinary.

She had always found that funny. That the nurses called him that. Like he was one of Castle's characters, just as she was too. Both of them characters, caricatures.

"You - kissed - you _kissed_ him?"

"We were trying to distract the guard outside. Where Espo and Ryan were being held. Were being tortured for information."

"Hell," he cursed, pacing away from her with his hands on his hips. "You toss that into our conversation like a damn grenade, Kate. Comparatively, you kissing Castle is nothing against two of your partners being tortured. So it makes me look like a schmuck if I say something about how _unfair_ it is, you cheating on me-"

"I wasn't cheating."

"What were you doing then."

"Acting."

His jaw worked as he looked at her, studied her. For signs. She showed none.

"Acting," he said, as if working the word around in his mouth. "Right. You said you kissed him back." His lips twisted and he threw up a hand before she could answer, just as she'd figured. Counted on.

He didn't want to know. He never did.

She waited, but he was gathering his things, his keys, the helmet to his bike. Quietly. No comment.

And then he left.

Beckett let out a slow breath in the silence of her apartment, her hands still folded in her lap, her legs crossed in namaste.

But she felt no peace.

It wasn't acting.

* * *

 **#51**

* * *

Number sixteen continued.. (see how creative I am with these things? ㈳7)

— ALITTLETUNE

* * *

It was not in his nature to confront.

His mother had raised him quite passively-aggressively, and Castle did his confronting on the page, with characters named Schlemming poorly cloaking his intentions.

But he found himself at her apartment, his hand curled in a fist to knock, raised just before the door opened.

Josh worked his jaw, flared his nostrils, and slammed the door shut as he left.

Left. Left Castle standing in the hallway, left the door perhaps unlocked, left the apartment.

It was not his nature to confront, but passive-aggression won the day, as it always did.

"You going somewhere?" he called out, trying for cheery, winding up with darkly sarcastic. A claim he had no right to. The lingering taste of her tongue in his mouth.

Josh raised his middle finger in salute and trooped down the stairs, hitting his motorcycle helmet on the railing with every step.

And Castle's heart _soared_.

He knocked as he tried the knob, opened the unlocked door with a held breath's anticipation. She was sitting serenely on the couch, eyes closed, but her face tilted towards the door. "Josh, I don't think-"

"It's not Josh."

Her eyes opened. She looked narrow and worn thin. He wondered if her bones felt as brittle as his own, still fragile with cold. "Castle."

It was not in his nature to confront.

He sat down on the couch beside her as if she had invited him and he purposefully left his posture open, palms up on his thighs. "I got cold," he told her. "Wondered if you were too. So I brought hot chocolate."

She gave him a sideways look, a closer inspection. "I don't see any hot chocolate."

He tapped the side of his head. "All up here. Secret recipe."

"Does your secret recipe include cinnamon and real cocoa?" she murmured, lips flirting with a smile.

He let his face fall, slumped his shoulders. "You already know."

"I already know," she said softly, as if delivering a blow. And then her hand touched his and her fingers curled around, tightening. "Yeah. Can't get warm."

He nodded as if this was the end of things, end of their conversation, end of the intimacy. Secret recipe for hot chocolate was his one way in. He had no other tricks.

She pulled his hand in against her stomach and his nerves jumped. Closeness, heat. His heart began to pound.

"Castle," she said.

His eyes lifted to her face.

"I told Josh. We're over."

His stomach dropped out.

And _then_ she shifted on the couch and slid her knee across his lap and sank down, down, hips colliding.

"Oh, God." He was going to combust.

She leaned in, their joined hands between them, and his fingers unfurled to stroke-

"Much better," she breathed, taking his mouth with hers.

—–


	15. up all night

**#19**

(#18 was a Dash universe fill, which will be posted in a separate story)

* * *

up all night

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

Kate Beckett waited in the green room with her hands tucked between her knees, her blazer pulled taut across her shoulders with her tension. She chewed her bottom lip, reviewing her main points.

It was vital that this work. She had nothing left.

Nothing.

Kate choked back the violent urge to sob, tilted her chin up to keep the tears at bay. She had to be clear-eyed. She had to be calm and rational-sounding because too many already thought she'd lost it.

She had lost it. She had lost him.

She just wanted him back.

She didn't believe, for a moment, he'd gone willingly. She didn't believe he'd leave her. On their wedding day.

She didn't.

She wouldn't.

Her knees bounced as she struggled, keeping her eyes focused on the television mounted on the opposite wall. Two guests before her. She was the last; she had been bumped last week, ran out of time.

She didn't care. She'd do anything. Wait in a green room with a bowl of M&Ms and a make-up artist hovering, trying to touch-up her lipstick as if that mattered at all.

"You don't want it too red," the woman said again. Dabbing. "Blot."

Kate pressed her lips together on the tissue, blotting dutifully. The woman disappeared as fast as she'd materialized and Kate was alone again. Waiting.

She'd do this all night. Every day.

She'd lost it. She'd lost it. She would drown in this just as she had drowned before without him, and she didn't care.

"Detective Beckett?"

Her head snapped up.

A man in a headset held up two fingers. "You're on in two."

She took a fortifying breath and stood up to follow him.

—–


	16. baby name book

**#20**

* * *

baby name book

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

"Ooh, Bran!"

She grunted. "No."

"Come on. It's good. It means Raven."

"It sounds like cereal."

He sighed. Flipped a few pages, skimming. "Buck. Heh. Listen to this 'Nature gave this man the swiftness and lightness of a deer.' How revolting is that?"

"Um."

"Yeah, I'm kidding. That's not gonna be his name."

"Keep going, maybe skip the B's? I don't like B names."

"Your name is Beckett."

She waved a hand in dismissal. He didn't try to probe.

He read on, chuckled. "Calvin. Bald one."

"Ew."

"Could be entirely appropriate."

"Better not be. That's not what I envision."

"Yeah, well." He shrugged though she couldn't see him, since she was lying flat on his black leather couch in the office. He pushed back in his office chair, heard his spine popping; she didn't seem to notice. "Hey! Cosmo is in here. Order, harmony, the universe. Ah, I knew I liked that name for a reason."

"You are not naming him Cosmo."

"There could really only be one Cosmo."

"Exactly." A little too rushed, that agreement. She was just trying to push him past Cosmo, wasn't she? "Only one. Ever. Go to the D's."

"Hmm, let's see. Dagan. The earth. Oh. Or. Huh. Little fish. I… don't get how they can't decide which one it means. Earth and little fish are not exactly the same."

"Huh."

"Wait. Huh, what? What was that noise for?"

"Dagan."

"You like that?"

"Hmm, I don't not like it."

Castle sat up straighter, dropping the "Name Your Baby" book. "Did you just - okay Dagan?"

"I just. Agreed to think about it."

He groaned and dropped back in his chair, his hands falling to his open laptop and the blinking cursor on the half-filled page. "Seriously, Kate. When I asked for help naming my next villain, I didn't think it was going to cause this much of a - response."

She sat up on the couch, swinging to put her feet to the floor. "This is important. This is for all time."

"Well, however long paper might last."

"And the ebook."

"Hm."

"And - and the Nobel Prize for Literature you win."

"Oh, true. Yes. Well. Looking at it that way. Lie down, Kate, I'll call out a few more names. I have the reputation of a Nobel Prize to think of."

—–


	17. Beach, babies, birthday

**#21 & #36**

 **A/N** : This is a Spy Castle AU - AKA Trauma Spies - that Jessie made me write. Here, they've met much earlier in their timeline, roughly 23 and 33 yrs of age, and Kate has been held captive by John Black and used as a test subject for three years. She kills Black to escape only to find Castle has come to rescue her. In this iteration, the twin boys are the result of Black's science experiment, born to Kate in captivity. Castle is learning to be their father, since they are genetically his and created without his knowledge.

It sounds really bad when I type it out like that, but I promise this scene isn't super angsty.

* * *

Beach, babies, birthday

— BRANNERDOODLES

* * *

She was soaked to the knees, though Wyatt clung stubbornly to the rolled cuff of her jeans, wet as it was. The two of them stood on the shore while Castle, stripped to his boxers, paddled a few feet away from them in the shallows of the lake, helping James learn to swim.

Castle's chest brushed the bottom, she could tell, and he used his knees to keep him level, but James - the kid was an otter, the water clearly over his head even if he'd been standing, loving every bit of it.

Wyatt did seem faintly morose to be left behind.

Kate dusted her fingers over the top of his head, combing back the wet strands from his face. "It's okay," she told him. He might not be able to hear her over the sound of the waves washing over the sand at their feet. "You don't have to swim right now. I can teach you when you're older."

Wyatt's head tilted back to look up at her, as if he heard the sounds but not the words. Both he and James were only in diapers, and those sagging a little, waterlogged, but their little legs had some roundness to them, sun dappling the creases of their skin.

Kate smudged a white line of sunscreen with her thumb, rubbing it into Wyatt's cheek. He whined and ducked his head into her knee, but he wasn't upset or unhappy. He just seemed to like to talk back, to raise a fuss or let her know where he stood on things. He just - talked. Not with words, maybe, but he wanted to be in on the conversation, the exchange.

She reached down and gripped his wrist, prying his fingers from her knee, and she started walking. "Let's leave the swimmers to it. You and me, Wyatt. We'll go exploring." She shaded her eyes with one hand, surveying the narrow strip of beach. The trees came right up to and into the water, so that one finger of forest blended right into the lake, creating an illusion she wanted to explore.

Wyatt came with her, grumbling about the shifting sand under his bare feet, gasping aloud when water came over their toes. His grip on her finger was tight, belying his easy-going attitude, but even as it scared him, he really loved it.

He loved what scared him.

She knew the feeling.

She led Wyatt towards the grove of water-trees, the sand mixing with soil now, becoming mud and clay rather than beach. Wyatt seemed to like that better, and she found herself enjoying the thick wet feel of mud between her toes. Wyatt got into the spirit of their adventure, began hopping forward, or trying to hop, little two-footed skips as he splashed in mud puddles and splattered them.

"Mommy!"

"I know," she laughed. "It's so fun."

"Daddy!"

"He's back there swimming with James."

Wyatt's face flooded with a frustration she'd seen often these last few days, an indication that what he'd wanted her to know she hadn't guessed. He grunted something into the sky and splashed purposefully in a muddy puddle, making spatters across her calves.

"Daddy!" he insisted.

She hesitated, half-turning back for the beach where they'd been keeping lookout on her two fish, but Wyatt tugged on her hand. Tugged and tugged until she wasn't facing back anymore.

"Daddy," he said, growling again at the end of it as it failed to produce the response he wanted.

He was searching for words. Could a fourteen month old be so linguistically developed? And why couldn't he? Castle surely talked enough. Whatever was in his special blood had passed down to the boys. Who knew what they were capable of?

Kate bent down over Wyatt, cupped his face, hoping he could sense somehow just how much she wanted to know. "What are you trying to tell me, baby?"

"Daddy," he said, sighing a little. This time he plopped his foot into the mud and it squished instead of splattering, sucking at his toes. This seemed to have surprised him, because Wyatt startled with laughter, releasing her hand to applaud.

And then she got it.

"Oh, baby, you meant like Daddy in the Jeep? When Daddy drove us here and it splattered mud everywhere."

"Daddy!" Wyatt lifted both arms to her, beaming so delightedly. She grinned and picked him up, mud ruining her white shirt, but she didn't care. She'd understood what he'd meant, she had actually done it right.

"Daddy drove us and splattered mud everywhere, didn't he? We'll have to wash our Jeep when we get home."

Wyatt beamed. "Eep!"

She laughed, delighted herself now, hugging him against her as his muddy fingers smeared her neck. "What a smart boy. You can teach your brother that one, James. Jeep."

"Eep!"

"Who needs swimming?" she murmured, kissing his cheeks.

* * *

 **#36**

* * *

Twins baby castle

— AGODWRITTENLIFE

* * *

Castle turned on the overhead rain spout, and the shower seemed to cascade like light itself. Kate watched, slightly hypnotized by the fall of water, while Castle rounded up the boys.

"Alright, alright, no more hide and seek. Give me that towel, you little monkeys. Come on, sweetheart." A tug on her hip and she startled back to herself, followed him automatically.

 _sweetheart_

"Go ahead and sit down. We'll do this assembly line style. I'll soap up the boys' bodies, pass them on to you to wash their hair. Give 'em back to me to rinse."

"At the same time?"

"One at a time," he clarified, shutting the glass door after them. "Okay, guys, who's first? James? Cause you look the most tired, baby boy."

He called her baby too. Sweetheart and baby, and why didn't she hate it?

"Hold still for me, son, there you go." Castle crouched in the spray, the water hitting his back and sliding down, dripping from his calves, his ankles, around his shoulders, streaking to his belly button and turning his boxers dark.

Sitting on the bench, Kate held on to Wyatt with a loose arm around his neck, but he seemed content to stomp his feet in the puddles of water on the tile. He would splash and give her a beaming, look-at-me face, and she would be obliged to kiss his nose and cheeks and make a big deal over his adventurous forays.

Castle was on one knee to bathe James, carefully blocking the worst of the spray as he held the boy under the showerhead. Soothing noises, clucks of his tongue, a word of explanation to James as he got the boy wet and then moved him out of the water.

Kate watched him lather up the baby soap, spreading it under James's armpits, down his torso, between the little folds and creases of the boy's skin. Under his neck, coasting his spine, a grimace as Castle washed between the boy's legs.

She pressed her lips together, amused by his faint unease. They were his sons, but they were strangers, and he was new to this job. Hell, so was she, and even when she'd been diapering them, there'd been a sense of _am I supposed to be doing this?_

Castle gave a triumphant little noise and lifted his head. "Okay, I'll rinse this one off. And then he's yours."

Kate couldn't help the smile that beamed back at him, proud of them both for figuring this out, doing it together. Teamwork. Not more than she could handle, not less than she could bear.

She released Wyatt to Castle and he nudged James forward.

"Come here, little cub," she murmured, holding out her arms to James. He gave a little running start and she caught him before he could slide on the tile.

She combed the wet strands back from his face and cupped his cheeks, made him look up at her, catching his eyes. He blinked and gripped her wrists, hanging on to her. A drop slid down his nose and she wiped it before it could curl to his eye.

"Hey, my baby wolf. How are you, love?"

Castle let out some strange noise, and she glanced up at him, distracted, but he shook his head and went back to the task of wetting down Wyatt.

 _Love_. He called her that, and here she was using it on the boys.

When she looked back at James, he was rubbing his face into her arm and whining pitifully.

"Such a tired boy, I know. I think it's a lot my fault. We're gonna have to work on that, honey. Figure out what we're supposed to be doing."

She ducked in close and kissed nose, and she had the sudden startling and clear revelation of exactly _how_ scary this was for all of them. Free now, and the world out there, and the boys just wanted what they knew, what had always been safe. And that was _her_. She was the only thing they'd ever had.

"Okay, okay," she whispered, finger-combing his hair, unsnagging the tangles. "I get it. I understand. I'll work on me too, sweetheart." Be stable. Be present. She couldn't be falling apart just because of a little trauma.

She hugged James briefly, her knees clasping his little body, and then she straightened up and started doing her job. She poured a dab of soap into her palm and rubbed her hands together, lathering the baby shampoo before she sudsed up his hair.

When the scent of lavender came over them, released like bubbles from the foaming shampoo, both she and James relaxed, an almost involuntary thing. She laughed softly at how drowsy the boy had suddenly gotten, the pitch of his body, the heavy sway, and she rubbed her thumbs in circles over his scalp, soothing him.

Her mother had always put lavender oil into her hot baths at night.

Kate inhaled deeply, surprised at how delicate the memory was, touching lightly along her nerve endings. It wasn't heavy, wasn't even sad; it was as if the stroking touch of her mother's fingers were in her hair and over her back, rubbing circles in her skin like she'd done when Kate was home sick.

A gift of ghostly memory: bath scent at night, candles and an open window to the city below, the sound of horns and car alarms, doors slamming and voices, the usual white noise against the drip of water and the slosh of the tub, the turning of pages as her mother read case files or a novel in the bath before bed.

Kate used to lie down before the bathroom door, listening to her mother, smelling that scent of lavender, falling asleep in it when she was a little girl, and talking to her mom through the door when she was older. Sacrosanct, her mother's baths, and rare enough that the memory was always wonderful.

Fingers closed around her wrist. "Kate? Sweetheart, you done? Wyatt's ready for you."

She released James to his father's hands; Castle had to lean in and bodily pick him up, hold him carefully under the spray. His wide hand shielded James's face from the water, preventing it from rolling in his eyes.

"He's practically asleep," Castle rumbled, voice pitched low but strong enough for her to hear over the shower.

Kate glanced down to Wyatt, wet and still a little soapy in her grip, and she scratched her fingers back through his hair to look at his face. He grinned back at her, held up both hands, opening his fingers.

He had nothing in either palm but water, but maybe that's all he was sharing. He frowned and pulled his hands in closer, studied them, then thrust them back to her.

She took one little hand and kissed his fingers, did the same to the other despite faintly tasting soap on her lips. "Let's wash your hair, my little animal. Oh, does that make you happy?"

She smiled as he shivered in pleasure, pushing his body between her knees and gripping her thighs with his hands. He slapped her skin and made the water splash, and he laughed.

"You're a little clown. As happy as your daddy. That's good, hush, no, you just splashed water in your eyes. That's all." She laughed back at him as he pouted melodramatically, and she cupped his face and kissed that pout. His grin came back instantly, like magic, and she scrubbed the top of his head, hard, to make him giggle again.

She washed his hair quickly, an eye on Castle as he cradled James against his chest. The boy looked either already asleep or fast on his way, and Castle was humming something low that reverberated against the tile.

"I'll rinse," she told him, crouching down with Wyatt and guiding him carefully back to the spray. She sealed her hand across his forehead as Castle had done, and nudged Wyatt's head back. "Tilt back, sweetheart. Don't want it running in your eyes."

He didn't seem to know that word, but he caught on fast to the way it would work. His shoulders hunched, obviously expecting the worst, but she managed to rinse the soap, only water running down his face when he twitched at the last moment.

She drew him out of the spray, wiping at his face with her fingers, and Castle turned the shower off quickly.

"Good boy, brave boy," she murmured, combing back his wet hair to keep it off his face, keep it from dripping in his eyes. "Oh, look at you, so handsome, all clean."

Wyatt beamed proudly, his chest puffing a little. He couldn't possibly understand her words, but he definitely knew her feeling, her intent, saw her regard in her face. She kissed his cheek and stood carefully, keeping hold of his hand.

Castle had already carried James out of the stall, and she followed with Wyatt, helping him over the little lip and across the steamy tile.

"Here, towels," Castle whispered, tossing one her way. She caught it and knelt down to wrap it around Wyatt's little body, rubbing him briskly. He giggled in a helpless kind of way, and she saw that he was tired too.

"Pajamas?" she murmured, lifting her eyes to Castle.

He nodded. "On the bed. Will he walk?"

At that moment, Wyatt stumbled into her and slumped against her chest, knocking her off her feet and on her ass. She caught Castle's smirk and shook her head, cradling Wyatt. "No, guess not."

"I'll lay James on the bed, come back for this one." He ducked, his knees bending, and his fingers lightly came to the top of her head before he was gone.

She slowly rubbed Wyatt's back through the towel, and cuddled his warm, soap-scented body.

She had sons. Two sons. And their father was right here with them.

She wasn't sure she had ever really understood that before now.

They were in this together.

—–


	18. Castle has pneumonia

**#22**

* * *

Castle has pneumonia

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

"This is serious. Sit down."

He sat, heavily, his head throbbing with a pain that felt like ice picks in his eyeballs. "It's not life or-"

"It _is_ ," she hissed, shoving on his sternum so that he flopped back to the bed. "You're in the hospital, Castle. This is life and death. Now lie down. And stay down."

He whined in complaint, but the rattle in his lungs strangled him until he was hacking up choking, breathless agony.

Her fingers were cool against his neck, one of her arms banded across his collarbones to hold him upright. When he could open his eyes, he gave her a bleary _oops_ and sank back to the upright head of the bed.

Breathing was difficult. He had never had walking pneumonia before. Jim Henson had died of it; he remembered that much. The poor Muppets. Jim Henson had died and the Muppets were left alone. No wonder Kermit and Miss Piggy had broken up. That kind of trauma would upset all of their lives, might be hard to ever get those pieces back together again.

"Hush, Castle," she murmured. "Miss Piggy isn't checking out your ass. That's just me. You bend forward too far when you cough. Need to tie those strings tighter."

"Yes, ma'am," he sighed.

"Don't ma'am me." Her fingers eased cool relief along his forehead, dusting down to his throat where it hurt so badly. Tracing runes into his skin. "Sleep if you can, babe. I'll be here."

—–


	19. nerf gun battle

**#23**

* * *

Three words for you: nerf gun battle.

— ENCANTADAA

* * *

She steadied her grip, two-handed like they'd taught her in the Academy, and then she took aim, breathing in and out regularly, timing it.

On an exhale, she fired.

The nerf dart hit him square between the eyes and stuck, the suction cup making that satisfying thwacking sound as it struck.

Kate rose from her hiding place with both hands in fists, victorious, crowing her head shot, really rubbing it in. He turned a baleful look on her, lowering his own nerf gun, the dart sticking proudly out from his forehead.

He reached up, yanked it off. A red circle was left where he'd pulled too hard on the suction cup.

She laughed, and he pouted, and she came closer, slinking down against him, rubbing chest to chest just enough to soften his sour look. She curled her fingers around his ear, tilted his head down to hers so she could kiss the red spot where her dart had struck him and held.

She hummed in appreciation of the wide, strong body framing her own, felt his arms banding around her upper back, tugging her closer. She came easily, kissing a spot at his jaw where her previous shot had ricocheted off the scruff.

"It's not fair," he grumbled. "I'm wheelchair bound. You get to sneak around."

"Did I say it would be fair?"

He hrumphed and knocked his forehead into hers; she smiled and wriggled on his lap just a little, enough to make him growl her name.

And then he fired his nerf gun into her ass.

Kate yelped and jerked upright. Castle just laughed evilly, all trace of his pouting gone.

"I'll get you for that," she said, rubbing her cheek where it still stung. "Close range at that."

"And you loved it," he grinned, still chuckling to himself over how very clever he was.

Oh, just wait, Castle. Just you wait.

—–


	20. I beg you

**#24** (post Reckoning)

* * *

Three words prompt: "I beg you."

— 47SECONDSOFVERITAS

* * *

"I beg you." He held up both hands in surrender, his chest tight. "Don't do this."

"Too late."

The bullet came.

He flinched, the sound hitting his ears before the impact, but it was her body slumping to the concrete floor, her blood pooling fast and viscous like a painted halo around her head.

He collapsed to his hands and knees, crying out her name, crawling forward until his pants were stained with her blood. He reached for her, heedless of Tyson and the weapon still trained on him.

He caught her into his arms, a hand gripping her hair to pull her head to his chest.

Her head slipped, her hair - shifted. Shifted wrong. All wrong, the angles, the weight, the thing in his arms wasn't Kate. Wasn't-

 _Castle woke._

Gasping. Awake. He was awake. Awake.

Lying on his stomach in their bed, sweat drenching the sheets, paralyzed by the dream state that still held onto him.

But he was awake. He could see the outline of the moon through the window, the wan yellow light it cast over the bed. And her body under the comforter, her hair splayed over the pillow in a dark halo like blood.

He was awake but he couldn't move. Why couldn't he move? He was _awake_.

He was half in the dream, half in the now, and he was frozen.

 _Don't let her be dead._

And then the dream finally released him, the darkness unhooked its talons and let him go. He reached out too fast, knocking his fist into her shoulder so that she gasped and jerked violently, but he had her, he had her, she was alive.

Castle wound his arm around her and pulled her hard back against him, crushing her body under the cover of his, and she said nothing at all.

She merely wrapped her arm around his and hung on.

She knew.

—–


	21. Zip it Kitten

**#25**

* * *

Three word prompt: "Zip it... Kitten"

— LORDOFKAVAKA

* * *

"You don't have to prove anything," he said, his eyes in shadows.

But she knew. She said nothing in response and merely tightened the leather around his wrist.

"You have nothing to prove. Not to her. Definitely not to me."

Beckett straightened up, knowing that as she did so, the lace and wire pushed her chest forward appealingly. He was watching. He was shifting on his ass in the bed, both arms bound to the headboard by his wrists, and yet he still exuded all that same masculine confidence and control.

"Whatever she thinks about us makes no difference to what we are. You know, and I know-"

"Castle," she said calmly. She did not want Meredith anywhere near their bedroom.

He finally looked up at her. At her face, that was, rather than her breasts. Dusky through the lace. She knew what she was doing to him.

"Kate?" he said faintly.

"Zip it, kitten." She leaned in over him and dragged her hand down his bare chest, dropped it heavily in his lap.

He twitched.

But to be fair to him, even tied to the bed he was still dangerously seductive, like a lazy but deadly lion waiting for his lioness to bring home the prey.

She straddled his thighs and set about trying to make him purr.

—–


	22. Please don't stop

**#27**

(#26 was a Dash prompt)

* * *

Please don't stop

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

She touched his face with her fingers, snared by the naked want in his eyes. She was cold to the bone, rain-soaked, and lightning lit the side of his face, Jekyll and Hyde, dark and light.

"Kate," he said. His voice was heavy as a stone and it dropped in the pool of her arousal.

"Yes." She tried to catch hold of him but he trailed out of her touch, nudging his nose down against her sternum, down. "Oh."

Lips skimmed her topmost rib, tickled the hollow cage as she gasped for breath. His hands framed her hips and tugged her towards him, the connection of their bodies causing her to shudder.

"Kate."

"Oh, yes." Her fingers danced up his cheekbone and circled his eye, watching him watch her, studying his study. The need, the want, the lust.

The love.

How he'd fought for her, fought _her_ , and now this. She could feel what he felt, all of it ready to burst.

"Kate."

She shifted a knee up, knocking into his side in unspoken prompt. He lowered a kiss to her navel, a touch of his tongue that made her moan.

"Kate."

"Don't stop."

—–


	23. don't come back

**#28**

* * *

Prompt: "don't come back"

— NIC6879

* * *

Kate paced the Twelfth's narrow conference room, from the windows to the door, back again. Back again. She had that clawing in her throat that portended terrible things, the same feeling she'd had that night at dinner when her mother never showed up.

She pivoted hard on her heel and Castle was at the door, hands lifeless at his side. Eyes on her. "I…"

"What did they say?" She wrapped her arms around her torso, holding her elbows. It'd been her idea for Castle to go in friendly with Sarah's parents, victims versus cops, but it's obvious he got nothing from them.

"They won't - say." Castle dragged a hand down his face and when he looked at her, oh God.

Kate jerked forward and wrapped her arms around him. His head came heavy to her shoulder, something terrible in his throat that didn't escape.

"They know something, Kate, and they're keeping it to themselves. It's my daughter too. My daughter-"

He clutched at her jacket, and she gripped the back of his neck tighter. Promises crowded her mouth but he'd already told her she couldn't.

She couldn't.

Because if she failed to deliver on that promise, she'd never get him back.

But if she failed, if the worst were to happen and Alexis - he'd never be the same again, _they_ would never be the same.

They wouldn't be at all.

Castle released her, a gruff noise in his chest as he looked away.

She reached up and touched the tear that had spilled out.

Castle caught her by the wrist, made her go still. His gaze cut back to her and she dropped her hand as if burned.

He stepped back out of the conference room, and Kate drew her hand into her chest, pressing her knuckles into her sternum.

She couldn't fail.

—–


	24. Kate's severely sick

**#39, #29 & #35**

* * *

Whooping cough, prequel

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

She was in an alley when it happened.

It seemed fitting, and something dark in her psyche reveled in it. The sense of suffocation as her airways closed up, the swimming in her head, the black spots blooming across her vision. _You deserve this, no better fate than this, just like her._

She was chasing a suspect in an alley and suddenly she couldn't breathe.

She crashed into a dumpster and ricocheted back, but she didn't lose her gun (she remembered, later, how fierce her pride roared up at that), but she went to one knee, wheezing for a breath that absolutely wouldn't come.

Castle kept up the chase. Castle tackled their suspect with Ryan right behind him, but in the meantime, Esposito found her. Blue-tinged lips, on her hands and knees, sucking ineffectually at the air.

He called the ambulance. Castle came back crowing, Ryan on his other side, their perp between them, but the moment he saw her, he was on his knees beside her.

And then she started coughing.

And coughing.

And coughing so hard her ribs bruised, her spine twisted, but _no air_ came into her lungs. Every cough was agony, every dry rattle was a breath she couldn't get, clawing at her vulnerable alveoli until she went down to one elbow, her cheek crashing into Castle's outstretched arms.

He dragged her upright with him, forced her to her feet, lengthening her spine and uncollapsing her ribs, and she sucked in one cold breach of air before exploding into a coughing fit that wouldn't quit.

When the ambulance arrived, they gave her oxygen and hustled her into the back, strapping her down because she kept trying to get off the gurney, both of the paramedics giving each other knowing and grim looks.

 _Whooping cough_ , Castle said into their silent exchange.

She couldn't even get enough air to protest. Instead she coughed, barking air out of her lungs in explosive, painful heaves until she blacked out.

—–

 **#29**

* * *

Kate's severely sick

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

"No."

Castle lifted an eyebrow and laid his hand over hers on the thin blanket. "Nice try. But yes."

"I don't…" She trailed off, eyes glassy, and he could see the effort it took her to bring it back. "I don't get sick."

"We're not in the hospital because you're _well_ , Beckett."

She slid a restless leg out of the covers, back under again, squirmed her shoulders back against the mattress. He caught her hand before she could pick at the IV line going in her elbow.

"I don't get sick," she whined, but instead of cute or pathetic, her voice broke and husked. She jolted forward with a coughing fit that rattled her lungs, that obvious barking sound that had first signaled him something was way more wrong than a head cold.

She was gagging by the end of it, spitting into the kidney-shaped container he had found in the catchall under the bed. She's hunched over the makeshift vomit bag, coughing so painfully hard that retching was the only way she could catch her breath.

He palmed the nape of her neck to keep her hair from falling forward and Kate from collapsing inward, and then he slowly eased her back against the head of the bed. Upright to keep her lungs from filling.

"Is he sure it's not just the flu?" she croaked. Her voice sounded like she'd been raked over hot coals, screaming.

Her fever was still at 104, so yeah, that was accurate.

"It's not the flu," he said peaceably. "But I'm sure they'd be willing to run their tests all over again. Take more swabs to culture-"

"No," she breathed. Or was trying to anyway. "No, I believe them."

"You believe them."

"I thought only babies got whooping cough."

"And I thought we had a vaccine," he countered. "Which seems the more important thing here. But apparently it can fade as an adult."

Kate sagged back against the mattress, eyes closed, face sallow. Her lips were parted, but her breaths sounded torturous.

Castle rested his hip against the side of the bed, slowly sat down. He released her hand, certain now she was settled, and instead he reached up and brushed the hair back from her face.

Her eyes opened. Startlingly dark. "I want to go home."

He sighed and caught her arm, rubbing his thumb just below the tape at the crook of her elbow. "I know, Kate. But they've given you the good antibiotics, they're putting fluid back in you, trying to get your fever down. Heck, they've even given me the good stuff. You'll have to stay overnight, but we'll go home the moment you're discharged."

He held the bend of her elbow in the palm of his hand and waited.

Her eyes flared open again. "I'm hot."

"You most definitely are." He smiled, and she smiled back, albeit weakly, and she turned laboriously onto her side and curled around his hip.

"Stay?"

"Of course."

"Unless Alexis-"

"No. With you." He carded his fingers through her hair. "I'm with you, Kate."

—–

 **#35**

* * *

Whooping cough continued :D

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

He couldn't sleep.

Not just because they were in a hospital and he was crowded into one corner of her hospital bed. Not just because her temperature was still hovering somewhere around one hundred and two and he was damp with both of their sweat. Not just because she was restless in her sleep.

No, Castle couldn't sleep because he was afraid she'd stop breathing.

Every time he began to drowse into the rattle of her rhythm, there came a silence - a hitch. A cessation of wheezing where it seemed like her lungs might not fill again.

He held his own breath, willing her to chest to expand, prayers offered up to the darkness until that gasp came again. The gasp and rattle of air falling back into her lungs.

And then he breathed, and his tension slowly receded.

After everything, he was not going to let whooping cough take her. Whooping cough. What was this - the nineteen-twenties?

When the night shift nurse came for vitals check at one in the morning, Kate was just enough jostled that she woke, a violence in her rasping that made Castle catch her wrists and press her arms to his chest.

She was confused, but the nurse was fast, heart rate and blood pressure and O2 stats, and then Castle could talk her down, easing Kate back to the mattress, that strange reclining position, until he no longer felt the mad tattoo of her pulse in her neck and wrists.

She seemed to settle, still confused with medication and interrupted sleep, repeating his name every few terrible breaths as if she couldn't quite let go.

So he started to talk.

He told her a story. He told her about the day he turned around to sign a book and instead found a badge. He added wry commentary just to hear the sound of his own voice rather than the excoriation of air in her chest, terrible and raw.

He told her the story of love, how he found himself looking for meaning again, how she expected better from him and somehow he found himself rising to the occasion. _And no, not in that way, though there's always that too._

He talked and she tumbled back to sleep, and the cicada saw of her breathing kept him company.

So long as it sounded, however it sounded, she was alive.

—–


	25. Beckett, fear, needles

**#30**

* * *

Three word prompt: Beckett, fear, needles. Thanks!

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

"You're going to love it, Beckett, I promise."

He took her by the shoulders, steering her out of the salon's dressing room and into the chrome and wood hall of Essential Therapy Spa. The place was redolent of mint and eucalyptus, and the music was so muted she caught only the faintest hints of humming. And oceans.

"Castle-"

"I booked the couples massage too," he grinned. Not that she could see him grinning, with him at her back practically pushing her forward in her white, voluminous robe. She could just hear the grinning. His vowel sounds changed when he was smiling so deeply, and despite her anxiety, it pulled an answering smile from her.

When did the honeymoon period end? She was mentally rolling her eyes at herself for every dopey grin and every urge to bury her face in his chest and stand so close they breathed the same breath and this idiocy was completely not her.

"Here we are, first stop," he announced before a closed door. He had waved off the woman at the front desk with a cheery _I know my way_ , which ought to have made her concerned, but she was too afraid to register.

No, never afraid.

Nervous. She was - exceedingly nervous.

"This will improve circulation, relieve headaches, alleviated tension-"

"Castle, you sound like the brochure," she muttered. She was swimming in the stupid robe.

"You said-"

"I know what I said."

"So." He knocked on the door and a voice called out for them to enter. He pushed it open. "Voila."

Kate stepped in, never one to back down anyway, and found herself abandoned inside. Castle waggled his fingers and blew her a kiss, and he was gone.

It was only supposed to take fifteen minutes.

The woman inside gestured her forward, smiling, soft, completely unlike what Kate had envisioned. A small woman, a good foot shorter than Kate, she had a bland scrub top and navy pants, black saddle shoes. "Come on inside, ma'am. I'm Carrie. I have your sheet here. Kate? Tension carried in the neck and shoulders."

Castle must have filled that out. He knew those spots that always got her. "Yes, I - guess so. I'm not really sure I need this. I'm not in pain or anything-"

Before she could finish, the woman had reached out in a Vulcan death grip and pinched something that shot pain straight up into her skull. She grunted and her head bowed forward.

"Oh, yes. Kate. I can feel those knots." Her fingers moved and Kate's knees nearly went out. "Let's get you up on the table, Kate. You can leave the robe on."

She went. Docile as a lamb, climbing onto the table facedown, as Carrie indicated, putting her face into the hole in the middle so that everything pressed down, weighted by gravity.

She felt the blood in her lips and cheeks, pulsing in her eyelids. Carrie was pushing her thumb into spots along Kate's spine.

"Here we are. I've located these. I have four needles, one for each, and I'll insert the needle into the trigger point and basically dig around-"

Oh, God, she was going to kill Castle. Dry needling? This was insane.

"For these first two, it will feel like someone is digging their elbow right into your muscle. It will seem to jump. And then for the last two - you might feel some pain, but it will immediately feel like relief."

Pain as relief. Beckett knew something about that.

"Here we go. Deep breath in. And release."

She felt the needle slide into her neck, and then the weird sensation of it being dragged continuously over her muscle. Again and again and once again, so that it twitched and spasmed - and then heat washed across the spot and something went to rest in her.

Kate breathed.

"Very good. That's the first."

By the time Carrie had gone deep into the muscle along her spine, Kate was grunting. Each flick and twitch of muscle was accompanied by a burst of heat that jolted like electricity up into her skull and down into her hips.

Electricity and then pure sweet heavy relief.

She had no idea how long she'd drifted there, but after a moment, a warm hand laid on her back, between her shoulder blades. A kiss to the back of her neck.

"She said you were out of it."

She mumbled at him in bliss, but something wet and freezing dropped on her neck. She yelped and flailed out at Castle; he was laughing.

"Have to ice it down for a few. Feels good, huh?"

Kate cursed but she had absolutely no motivation to go anywhere or do anything.

"Ka-ate," he sang in her ear. "Was I right or was I right?"

"Shut up, Castle."

"Say it. Just say it. You know you want to."

"If I say it, will you shut up and go away?"

He laughed.

"You were right. Dry needling. Who knew?"

Castle fist-pumped, hissing a _yes_ as he did a victory dance she could only see through the hole in the table.

She didn't even care. She felt that good.

—–


	26. What happened here?

**#31**

* * *

What happened here?

— SOPRANO193

* * *

Beckett sucked the raw place on her knuckles and flexed her hand. Burned. Stiffening up. She ought to put ice on it as soon as she made it home.

The subway car swayed as it went around a corner in the dark tunnel, and of course the overhead fluorescents flared too-bright, flickered, and then came back at half-light. She squinted and flexed again, pressed her knuckles to her lips.

She tasted blood.

Next time, she'd have to tape her aching wrists and use the padded gloves. She had never battled the heavybag before and that asshole from Vice had been down in the gym, watching her, and she'd rushed through, chosen the wrong equipment, gotten stuck with it.

Trying to prove something.

She wasn't stupid. Repetitive bare knuckles on a well-used gym heavybag meant sweat, blood, and germs being swapped around. And her wrists, the delicate connective tissue, the tendons and cartilage - she had to be better. Smarter.

The subway car screamed as it came too fast into the station and began braking for the stop. Beckett straightened up, pulled her knuckles away from her mouth, still obsessing over it. Flexed her fingers again. Hoped she hadn't done damage.

She stepped off onto the platform with a host of late-rush-hour stragglers, the Wall Street guys and the workaholics like herself. She let the crowd carry her to the escalator, came out into the darkness of winter night.

A crisp inhale of steam from the food cart, and Beckett headed up the block. Without thinking, she stuffed her hands in her pockets and winced, cradling the hand against her hip, careful with the strained edges of material where her coat grabbed at her.

She flexed, kept the pain alive but the blood moving, not letting it stiffen up.

Beckett wasn't paying attention as she mounted the steps of her building, but the looming shadow inside the entryway made her head snap up, her bad hand shoving inside her coat for her weapon.

She drew, but it was only Castle waiting on her, and her heart thudded over and settled again.

Well, not settled. Not ever entirely settled with Castle.

"Beckett," he said cheerfully. "I had another thought about our guy." He came closer and noticed her drawn weapon, tsked at her with a grin. "Where've you been? I've been waiting here since seven-thirty. You're not answering your phone."

She slowly holstered her weapon, letting her coat flare out at her hips. "Battery died while I was in the gym. Precinct. Why'd you wait so long?"

"Not long," he shrugged, but his eyes - as always - were tracking her every movement. Unnerving how he watched her. Studied. Divined her story from the least little thing. "Hey, what happened here?"

He reached out and caught her hand between both of his, cradling, and heat bloomed in the center of her palm and traveled up, as if her very blood and bones were pathways for the singular sensation of his hands on her.

Beckett flexed her fingers, wincing, but her cheeks were flushed. And she knew it. "Nothing. Punching bag."

"Heavybag," he rumbled. His voice was low, intimate. They were standing too close. "You have to use the wraps and padded gloves, Beckett. Otherwise-"

"I know that," she said. She had meant to snap at him, yank back her hand, roll her eyes. Instead her ears burned and her lips tingled, too thick to make the words come out right. "I got distracted."

"Distraction makes you brutalize yourself?"

She let out a rush of breath, insinuations sliding through her. He hadn't even meant it like that, he just liked to use big words, but oh, her body was on fire.

His thumbs circled the back of her hand, around and around, weaving in and out, a complex infinity. "Tell me to come up," he spoke quietly. "And I'll find your first aid kit and be your ring man."

"Ring man?" she got out.

"Yeah, you know. Trainer. Guy in the corner of the ring who comes and squirts water in your mouth and shoves the mouth guard in and then pushes you back into the fight."

Beckett went still. Her hand was too hot, alive in his. He was smiling, that crooked one that meant he thought she couldn't take the truth without a dose of humor.

Her _ring_ man.

She swallowed and told him straight up. "You already are, Castle."

—–

 **A/N:** _Please,_ I beg of you - if you have prompts, submit them to my inbox on tumblr. I cannot keep up with them here in reviews. There's no good way to respond or post the fills, and all of these go through tumblr first. Thank you!


	27. Whatever you decide

**#33**

(#32 was Dash, to be posted in a Dash compendium)

* * *

Three word prompt: Whatever you decide

— INKSTAINEDCOFFEECUP

* * *

"You're killing me here, Kate."

She shrugs and glances through the window, seeing only her own reflection. "I don't care. I told you."

"But here's the thing. I suggest Mexican and you'll find something wrong with it. I say pizza and you'll wrinkle your nose - and yeah, it's cute, but it also tells me you're not into it. And if I say, hey, let's go for Thai, you'll say it's too spicy. But-"

"Whatever you decide is fine," she says again, watching the lights in the tunnel, feeling the movement of hurtling through a black tunnel in a narrow metal tube.

"What about Italian?"

She winces. She spars tomorrow morning with Robards and he's big and he pulls no gut-punches and she-

"See?" he bursts out, throwing up both hands. And then he has to scramble to grip the metal pole again, the subway car throwing him back and to the right. "You did it again."

She did it again. "Italian then. I'll order salad."

His eyes go livid. It's an actual color. She forgot how much he hates for her to be taller than him; she should have changed out of the hooker shoes but she liked them.

"Salad," he grits out. "All this food in New York City, and you go with salad?"

"And you go with Italian?" she fights back. "I bet you're thinking Ray's, too, and don't you go there at least once a week? All this food-"

"Fine," he dismisses. Turning his head from her because he can't turn his body. There is a fine art to body language on a subway. It's incredibly difficult to position yourself in such a way as to convey the exact right disdain.

Will Sorenson has mastered it.

He masters everything he touches. She should know.

She would have moved to Boston with him. She's faintly horrified by that. He broke the news about his job and it was her first thought, transferring to the BPD.

But he didn't ask.

He didn't ask and now they're heading out for a celebratory dinner and he wants her to decide. This? This is what he wants her to decide?

The subway pulls up to the platform at West Fourth Street - Washington Square. It's massive, two levels, Sixth and Eighth Street exits, and she finds herself stepping forward.

"Kate," he hisses, catching her sleeve. "Ray's is Columbus Circle."

"Like I could forget," she finds herself saying.

"This isn't our stop," he keeps going, scowling at her. Trying to make her fall in line.

"This _is_ our stop." He's confused, doesn't understand. She shakes her head. "Go without me. You're good at that."

She pulls back and slides out the doors, pushing her way out.

She won't be going back to their place. She won't be going back period.

She lets herself get lost.

—–


	28. please, hold me

**#37**

* * *

Three word prompt. Kate to Castle "please, hold me"

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

 _Hold me._

It thrummed so vibrantly through her that it might have even left her lips.

But Kate kept her mouth shut, her feelings brimming so that she felt soaked in sentimentality, in near-death clarity, standing in her soaking wet clothing on the pier.

Her car was in the drink, but she was in the clear - everything was so very clear to her now - and the dark water below couldn't mar the expectation, the exultation of being alive right at this very moment, with Castle huddled close for warmth.

They'd had to walk to a payphone, one of the last bastions, and that had kept her blood circulating, her heart rate up. Now that dizzy relief was giving way to dizzy drowsiness, and she knew, bitterly cold as they were, that they had to do something.

 _Hold me._

She didn't say it. She wouldn't let it leave her lips. But how _vivid_ the feeling was, _wanting_ him, how perfectly it aligned inside her. A shift and it had all clicked. The water had risen and so had her certainty.

Castle.

His hand fumbled at her thigh and then his fingers wrapped around hers, squeezing too hard. He must not be able to feel his extremities. Neither could she. Her toes were solid blocks.

"Ambulance on its way," he reminded her.

She struggled back to the details, the minor points of survival in this strange gap between rescued and saved.

"I can't believe you found my gun," she said again. It was on a loop in her head.

"I can't believe it took me so long."

 _I can't believe you dragged me out of the back window and swam up through the vortex of that sinking car and broke the surface for a breath of frozen air and then - and then - hauled my unconscious body onto the pier._

"It's a little cold out here," he said. A twist of his lips.

She snorted. "Nippy."

His lips curled at the corners now, pleased smile. "Getting the hang of the gallows humor."

"You really are," she hummed, so pleased with him too. _You really are._

She heard sirens in the distance. She felt the still-burning clarity that fooled her into thinking she was warm.

 _Hold me._

She wanted, more than anything, for his arms to slide around her, pressing wet skin to skin, hard breath to breath, and feel his embrace, encompass her.

But instead of a hug, she tightened her grip on his hand. It would have to do for now.

She knew what she wanted, and she had time, thanks to him; they had time.

—–


	29. pull over now

**#38**

* * *

Three word prompt - "pull over now"

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

"Pull over." She fisted her hands against her thighs. "Now."

Castle glanced at her, opened his mouth like he was going to say _no_ , but he closed his jaw and flipped the turn signal to change lanes. Her heart was in her throat, in her _mouth;_ she could taste it.

He pulled off the side of the road, a cut-out into the trees, and she struggled with her seat belt, with the door, with her own feet.

"Kate?"

She jumped out and stalked to the edge of the treeline, burning with it, so furious she was shaking. Castle wisely remained behind, not approaching her, not even climbing out of the car, and she stalked off into the trees, mad enough to be stupid.

It was stupid. She knew walking into the woods when it was dark was stupid. But she had to have space.

She walked until she ran into a tree obscured by the shadows, grunted and rubbed her shoulder, leaned back against the bark. The car's headlights were a fine pinpoint of light, and the sky overhead was clouded, no stars. No stars for eons.

No stars.

They were on the run.

And that was when she walked back. Slowly, finding her way, breathing. Her head pounded painfully; she was probably concussed from the motel room encounter. Bracken had sent men after her, and just because she had managed to deal with them didn't mean she had ended it. There would be others.

And Castle was here. With her.

She halted at the line of trees, forest behind her, the car ahead of her, each one waiting, breathing, alive. She had a choice. She could just keep walking, lose herself, lose everything, or she could drag him down with her into this furious darkness without stars.

She stood; she could not move, not ahead, not behind.

And then Castle climbed out of the car, his hand on the hood, watching her a moment. She trembled there, caught between, and then he came for her, making his slow way, ambling almost. As if they had all the time in the world.

Castle stood before her, so tantalizingly close she could smell the aspen musk of his aftershave. A brutal and sharp contrast of the real aspens at her back. The quaking aspens.

"How's the headache?" he said quietly. And with a small gesture of his hands, seemed to open his arms to her.

She stepped into them, laying her forehead to his collarbone, making herself just that inch smaller so that she could.

So that she could.

His fingers cradled the back of her head, probing gently. He winced as she winced. "Stopped bleeding, at least."

She breathed and he held her up.

"You want to get back in the car?" he said.

No.

But yes.

—–


	30. angry ex

**#40 & #109**

* * *

angry ex sex

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

She showed up at his door. She hadn't been drinking. Well, not more than the two or three sips she'd had before Castle had walked away with Gina.

After that, she had poured it out in the bathroom sink. Never drink to solve your problems or soothe your pain. Only drink to celebrate.

And there had been nothing to celebrate.

The security lamp came on outside his apartment building when she stepped into the close vestibule. She pressed his buzzer and shifted on her feet, overly warm in her jacket for this time of the year.

 _What do you want_ he grumbled through the speaker.

 _You_.

 _You broke up with me, Beckett._

She said nothing. She had offered everything she had to offer, and he knew the truth of the matter.

The lock buzzed angrily in the dark silence and clicked, and she reached out fast to snag it. The door opened easily and she wondered if it mattered that this was the first time she'd ever darkened his doorway.

He was waiting for her at the top of the stairs. His hair was spiked where he'd been scraping his hand through it, his eyes were bleary, his dress shirt unbuttoned and the tie loose around his neck.

He was not happy with her. He swore at her and she didn't hear it; she advanced on him and saw, again, the vision before her that was now bitterly out of her reach.

The sun beating down, the sand under her toes, wearing a skimpy black bikini with ties at her hips that he would have tugged, one after another, until he gave up on his patience and slid his fingers where they both wanted them.

"Touch me," she told him, biting his earlobe and nudging her hips into his. He smelled like day-sweat and faded cologne, and she remembered making plans with him to go away for the weekend.

She needed that now, something to erase the weekend she wouldn't be having, something loud to drown out the smile he'd given his ex-wife.

"Demming," she husked, teeth scraping his jaw and down to his throat. She bit his adam's apple and sucked, and he groaned, cursing her.

But he got his hands on her and yanked her back into his apartment, spun her around even as he slammed the door shut. She was already tugging her shirt out of her pants and unbuttoning, scanning his apartment for the nearest flat surface.

The floor would have to do.

—–

 **#109**

* * *

More ex-boyfriend sequel. :D

— ALITTLETUNE

* * *

"You bitch."

It was said entirely without ire, just a certainty that came with dawning realization. She braced herself, buttoning her shirt.

"What'd he do?" Demming said, staring at his hands hooked around his drawn up knees. He was still half-naked; she was working to make herself less so.

"Who."

"Don't play now, Kate." He said her name like biting into ice. "You dumped me for him. Didn't you." Not a question, but her hands shook as she closed the buttons. He slumped back against the wall - they hadn't made it past the entryway. "Don't come back."

She hadn't planned on it. "I just need my shoe." She couldn't find it. How could a left shoe go missing in a bare blank hall? "Damn it."

He said nothing. She saw angry score marks at his ribs where she'd mauled him. A livid red something at his throat. None of this had made her feel better, only worse.

Infinitely.

She let out a breath when she found her shoe half kicked into the tiny galley kitchen. She stepped into it, fixed the heel, ran her fingers through her hair. She didn't look at Tom as she left, shutting his apartment door behind her, leaving him sitting on the floor where she had once been, riding his lap like she had no control.

She had no control.

Her hands shook as she shoved past the security door, finally out into the city, the brisk pace and the darkness giving her a sense of otherworld. She was not the woman who had been wounded and lashed out like an animal.

She was one in a face of thousands. She was anonymous and carefree.

She was everything she was not, and she would survive the summer without.

—–


	31. Love you baby

**#41**

* * *

Three words? ... Love you baby

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

"Good night, moon," she whispered, her eyes tracing the curve of light in the sky.

She turned and made her slow way up the verdant green, the rolling lawn beneath her bare feet, still warm from the heat of the sun all day, caressing her ankles.

She took a breath of the salt-flavored air, the sounds of calling birds over the water, the hush of the old woman that was the ocean.

"Good night, quiet old lady," she whispered, remembering the rest of the children's book her mother had read to her. So small. A phantom memory.

She headed up the path with the water at her back, recited what came to her, picking out objects on her landscape that silvered in the moon.

"Good night, light. Good night, bears." They were humps of houses, ursine shadows, bowing their shaggy heads to sleep. "Good night, clocks."

Circadian rhythms ruled all.

"Good night, little house." Though it was quite big. And impressive. But it too was heading to sleep.

She climbed the hill and found their gazebo, the lattice work and trailing vines, the flowers that bloomed in the moonlight. She turned slowly before it, surveyed the whole of the earth rounding down to darkness. "Good night, nobody."

And then she stepped inside the gazebo and he, too, was asleep. Fell asleep waiting for her to make her peace. She came slowly to the bench and leaned in over him, caressed the side of his face with two fingers.

"Good night, stars. Good night, air." He was breathing in the darkness, the rumble of play-all-day exhaustion. "Good night, noises everywhere."

She leaned in and kissed his temple, her thumb marking the spot.

"Good night. Love you, baby."

—–


	32. Little Castle sick

**#42**

* * *

Little Castle sick

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

The door flew open.

Beckett froze mid-knock, opened her mouth, but no words came out.

He looked - in a state. Frazzled.

"Detective!" Too cheerful. The small set to his mouth meant the whole thing was forced. She wondered when she had figured that out, when the learning had happened. Two years with a writer and she was the one noticing details.

"Castle," she said slowly. "Did you get my text?"

"What?" Blurred edges, his hair mussed and straight from bed. Or never went to bed. That was more like it. "No, I - my phone is charging in the bedroom. I didn't hear it. You have a case?"

"We do," she said, realized she was correcting him. She was uncomfortable with that. "I do. I said I'd pick you up with coffee."

His gaze shot down to the cup holder she carried, the two coffees. His mouth dropped open.

"Here," she said, holding it up. "You look like you need it. If you're busy with someone-"

"No," he blurted out, eyes darting to hers. "I'm not busy. Not like that. No, well, I am busy. Alexis is sick. But."

She let out a breath, horrified by that too, the relief. She shook herself, pushed the coffee his direction. "Take it. Take - I have to go."

He grabbed for his cup, and she got out of there, but - it was just Alexis.

Just Alexis.

—–


	33. please kiss me

**#43**

* * *

3 word prompt: "please kiss me" (((hmmm season 4? :D )))

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

The dance floor was crowded, and that made it safe.

No one was watching, no one could judge, no one could squeal and overwhelm her, no one could give her knowing looks. All she had to do was slide her hands inside his jacket and hang on to the belt loops of his dress pants.

He looked handsome. And happy just to have her for a dance.

And his hands were extremely polite, which she found amusing, because they had danced before, and his hands hadn't been proper then, but now they were. Respect for a wall she hated.

"I wish I'd used a different metaphor," she sighed.

"What?" His voice was pitched lower than the crowd, and somehow it worked.

His voice alone cut through the noise and the music, the hilarity and the champagne and the celebration. Jenny and Kevin, Kevin and Jenny, and the 80s cover band do hair metal in a screaming rocker voice.

His reached her.

"I wish," she said, pushing in closer to put her mouth to his ear. "I hadn't said it was a wall. Because that's a lot of demolition. A lot of destruction. And really I feel…"

She trailed off, light and bubbly as the champagne and it could be that, but it wasn't that at all. His hands tightened at her hips, slipped a little lower. She bumped closer, because that was exactly what she'd wanted.

"You really feel what?" he said. His voice was mere vibration in his chest, quivering in the air between them.

"Recreated," she whispered. "Not destroyed at all."

"I don't want you destroyed," he said. And then his hands surged up and cupped her face and he had pulled her back where their eyes clashed and they were immovable on the parquet floor. "I just want you."

She blinked and his face dissolved into panic, blank and terrible, and she had to reach up fast and catch his wrists to hold him there. "Please-"

He swallowed.

She gripped the wide expanse of his palm and rocked forward on heels almost too high, a dress so tight she could barely move, all for him, for herself because she wanted to feel sexy enough for _him_ , for this moment to happen at all. She had needed the confidence.

"Please?" he croaked.

"Kiss me."

—–


	34. hitting rock bottom

**#44**

* * *

Prompt : hitting rock bottom

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

He opened bleary eyes and the sunlight hit him like a sledgehammer. He grunted and closed his eyes, tried to roll his head away.

Felt cold metal against his cheek, smelled the rank state of his clothes. Had he vomited on himself this time? He'd done that… last weekend too. He thought. Maybe. Cold metal and the harsh sunlight and the inside of his mouth was rancid.

He cleared his throat and tried to sit up.

Metal clanked and his eyes were peeled open. They burned in their sockets, but his daughter was standing before him, arms hanging at her side. She was somehow in shadow, despite the sunlight screaming across his vision.

"Katie?"

She turned her head to him and her eyes were empty, as shadowed as the darkness where she stood. "I had to arrest you," she said.

"Ah, hell, Katie. I have court this morn-"

"Yesterday morning?" she said tightly. Her eyes sparked but it died.

That sobered him. "Yesterday?" His fingers gripped the bench and he realized he'd been cuffed. "What… day is it?"

"Thursday."

He gaped, shock shoving hard into him so that his head clattered against the metal cage. Cage. "You threw me in prison?"

Her jaw worked. She avoided his gaze, but his head was aching and he bowed it, couldn't lift his hand high enough to even rub his temples.

"Zoo lock-up. You weren't formally charged," she said finally. "Luckily, no one pressed charges."

Pressed charges. His chest burned. He tasted the sour stink of his own breath, and _Thursday_. He'd gone to the bar Monday night just to take the edge off his nerves for his court case - he usually settled out of court - and then…

Thursday.

"I need to call the office," he got out.

"I called them," she said.

He squinted an eye and glanced at her, his irritation growing. "You called my law firm. Katherine Beckett-"

"Don't. You are _not_ my father. Not as you are."

His nostrils flared but so did hers. "Take these damn handcuffs off me. Chained like a common criminal."

"What do you think you are. What do you think you _did_ this time, Dad?"

His mouth went dry.

"There's a reason you're in here."

He gaped. "What. What did - did I do?"

She turned her back on him. "The office said you have three months probation and they won't inform the Bar Association. But you have to clean up."

Jim struggled to rise, but he couldn't get his balance. _Thursday_. "Katie-"

She didn't turn back. "Your carry permit has been revoked."

Oh, God, what had he done?

"Katie!" Jim lurched for the door, but it slid into place before he could make it. His heart was galloping so loudly he could barely hear. "Kate. Please. Please, tell me I didn't shoot someone."

She turned in the hall and now he saw the livid bruise across her jaw. He reeled back, and then surged forward, reaching for her, his baby girl, his only girl-

"Katie, no. No, honey. No. I didn't. Didn't-"

"It's my own damn fault. Wrestling the gun out of your hands."

"No, no, sweetheart," he groaned, dropping to his knees. No. Not her fault. It wasn't her fault. "This is all my own doing."

—–


	35. Drop the gun

**#45** (spoiler free) Beginning of Season 7

* * *

"Drop the gun."

— AMTEPE

* * *

"Drop the gun."

The words were ice down his spine. He didn't remove his eyes from their suspect, but he could see at edges of his vision how delicately Kate lowered her weapon to the ground.

Castle waited, coiling.

Kate stalled, lowering her head.

Their suspect jerked forward, waving his gun, and it was just enough. Castle jumped him, a flying tackle to bring the gun arm up and the man down. He heard the gunshot too close in his ear, felt the unbraced recoil absorbed by his body, and then they both hit the cement floor with equal groans.

Castle rallied faster, slammed a fist into their suspect's face, elbow to the throat, and knocked the gun out of the man's hand. He surged back to his feet, and Beckett was already there, kicking the gun so that it skittered across the concrete.

Castle, heaving for breath, made a fist.

Kate, never taking her eyes off their downed suspect, gun steady, made a fist and bumped his.

He brought his hands up to his mouth and gave a little roar of the crowd sound effect.

Her lips smirked.

Oh, they were definitely back in business alright.

—–


	36. Sadie Hawkins dance

**#48** & **#62**

* * *

Sadie Hawkins dance

— ANONYMOUS

NO season 8 spoilers

* * *

Castle is sweating, which is ridiculous because this is his partner. She's the one doing all the work here.

And yet so not. So not at all what he usually does, what they usually do, and as she stumbles and trips over her words and won't look at him in the eye except for occasional glances, (is she shy?), he can't believe how _adorable_ it is.

How he wants to open his arms and embrace her in a bear hug and lift her feet off the floor with the silly relief of it all.

But he can't because his pits are drenched with sweat, even his palms, she's so nervous and hedging and squirming on the spot.

"It's not that you have to come, or that I have to bring someone, it's just a stupid thing they do, and we've gone to other - um - we work well together. Even if it's dancing…"

Beckett trails off but instead of retaining the stuttering shyness, she balls up her fists and lifts her head to maintain a steady, intimidating eye contact.

And it hits him, exactly where and how he's seen her like this before. A year ago, a beer in her hand after a celebration in the conference room of the Twelfth, her fingers picking at the label and then smoothing down her pants, and then that lift of her head, all feigned confidence and bravado.

When she started off by saying almost exactly the same words she used this evening, _I know I'm not the easiest person to get to know…_

What - what exactly was she doing then, two years ago, that he apparently missed so spectacularly?

"Castle? You don't have to. Never mind. Forget-"

"No, I want to!" he blurts out, and despite himself, he reaches out and grabs her by the elbow.

By the look on her face, his palm has to be damp. He winces and releases her, nodding to keep her from thinking the worst.

"I would love to go, Detective," he says civilly. "The NYPD's Sadie Hawkins Dance. I'm honored you asked."

She doesn't blush, but it's a near thing. In fact, in Beckett's case, not blushing _is_ a blush. Her cheeks go white and her lips slightly bloodless for the way her teeth gnaw. She's frowning at him.

"It doesn't - have any special significance," she tells him. And then her eyes widen. "Not that you're not - your contribution to the Widows and Orphans Fund is - I meant you just, _honored_ , Castle, why do you have use words like that?"

He laughs, startled by the honesty that falls out of her. "Because it's the most accurate expression for the moment. I'm honored. Take it or leave it, Beckett."

She huffs and turns her head away, as if looking back towards the door will get her out of his apartment faster. "Well. Anyway. I - need to go. Home. Now."

"Sure you do. Seven o'clock Saturday?"

She fidgets and then glances at him. "Pick me up at six," she says quietly, and then turns to flee.

She wants him to pick her up.

Oh, yes, this _means_ something. As it meant something two years ago. He'll figure this out, he'll figure it all out.

And he'll use this as a perfect excuse to dance close to her all night, his mouth against her ear, his voice over her senses, using just the exact right words, the ones that will hopefully get to her once more.

—–

 **#62**

* * *

sadie hawkins sequel

— ANONYMOUS

For the sake of timeline, this is season 4

* * *

He picks her up at six-oh-three, damn the traffic.

She's not quite ready, which he files away for the future, stepping inside her apartment and watching pad barefoot away from him. Her head is tilted as she presses on the back to her earring, and it's something dangling and shiny.

And her dress. Like the night sky. Dark, hints of texture, the swirl of the Milky Way in her skin. He's not sure how he's supposed to keep his composure dancing with her so close, but he'll man up and take one for the team and all those good phrases.

"Almost ready," she says, her words in a rush. She sounds breathless.

Walls. Walls, he reminds himself. She has walls.

"Need any help?" he offers. He didn't bring flowers. He thought he should, but then he thought it would be too much. He wishes he had brought flowers.

"No, no," she says, a flushed look back at him. "Just shoes, clutch. Keys. Good to go."

She steps into one of her shoes, and he takes two strides to meet her, catching her elbow to give her balance. Not that she needs it. At all. But it's nice to be so close, with all this expectation and denial between them, and her skin warm under his palm.

"Thanks," she breathes, and then wraps the fingers of her other hand around his lapel, slides into her other shoe. She steadies, smooths out his jacket, and steps back. "Did you bring the car?"

"Service," he assents, letting her move away. She takes the clutch from the corner of the couch, heads to the kitchen counter to stuff her keys inside. He thinks he sees her gun and badge as well, and he wonders if she ever feels safe these days.

Does she always feel hunted? A target on her chest?

That sobers him, all the very valid reasons they're waiting for the right moment, all the reasons he can't spill his heart out to her. Secrets they keep.

"You ready?" she says, turning back to him. She even holds out her hand, fingers wriggling.

"So ready," he replies, and takes her hand.

—–


	37. lost my shoe

**#49**

* * *

"Lost my shoe"

— JYLEAFER15

* * *

"Castle, Castle!" she laughs, hanging on to him by the arm, swaying precariously.

"What, what happened?" He clutches her, holding her up.

"Lost my shoe," she mumbles, sounding breathless, her forehead buried against his shoulder. "Let me - hang on."

He glances down to find her working her foot back into her heel, her cheeks flushed in the golden sunlight. His fingers skim the hair back from her face and hook it slowly behind her ear.

She finds her balance, firmly in her shoes again, her chin coming up so that she's right there with him. The lace under the fingers at her back find skin, and she smooths slowly over the taut line of muscle.

"Thanks," she breathes. "How gauche. Tripping at my own wedding dance."

"Never," he murmurs, lips lifting into a smile. "Besides, that's what I'm here for. To catch you when you run out of your heels."

She looks lovely. And in love with him. His fingers dapple over her jaw and he can't help but kiss her.

She hums, and her hand cups the side of his face as if to keep him.

She can have him.

—–


	38. just hold on

**#50**

* * *

Just hold on

— ZOEYGIRL34

* * *

"I don't - think I can do this," he chokes out. Shame flares hotly inside him. And a fear that he is trying desperately not to show her.

"No." Her grip tightens, fierce and painful, but the burning sensation in his fingers is worse, the cramping overwhelming. "No, Castle. You just _hold on_."

"Kate-" he tries.

"Don't you dare. Don't you _dare_."

Two bare handholds on the rock face with Kate above him, lying flat to the ground to hang on to him. But he's stones heavier than her, and there's no way - there's no way out.

He wants to tell her to turn her head. _Don't look._ It's that imminent. He's going to lose his grip. She won't be able to hang on to him, the toeholds have already crumbled to dust.

"Kate," he starts again. His forehead sheens with sweat. Through his palms runs a terrible pain, his grip clawlike. "Kate, honey-"

"Don't you dare give up," she hisses. "They are nearly here. They're _so close_."

She suggested they take this path, try to head off their suspect as he dashed through the woods. Terrain the man obviously knew far better. Castle was skidding over the drop before he could put on the brakes. She's going to blame herself, for the rest of her life, and it guts him to know that.

"Do not do this," she growls. "Do not say good-bye, don't _look_ at me like that. Just hold on. Hold on, Castle. This isn't how we end. We are just beginning."

He doesn't want her to look. He presses his forehead to the rock, trying to push past the cramping in his fingers, the agony in his palms, the thump and sway of his body against the side of the cliff.

It's been such an amazing life with her. He feels pathetically, desperately grateful for having had her for all this time.

"Don't do this," she gets out. He lifts his head and meets her eyes, the tears sliding down her face. "Don't do this. Please. Castle. Just hold on. For me. Please, Rick."

"I love you," he says, the words rushing to get out even though he told himself he wouldn't do that to her. But he does it anyway, because he's always wanted those to be his last words.

Her face crumples. "No. No. You are not-"

Strong arms come over the cliff, grip the back of his shirt, his bicep, and they both gasp, terrible relief practically crushing him. He finds a place to wedge his knee, despite the pain, and the boys grunt and haul him back up.

He's on his hands and knees, gasping, when Kate throws herself at him, dragging them both back down to the earth.

"Don't you ever do that again," she cries into his ear.

"Never. Never," he promises, breathing her in. Safe.

—–


	39. over, baby, want

**#52 & 216**

This one contains spoilers for XX and XY of Season 8, and most likely could be read as a sequel to my post-ep, Written In Our Scars.

* * *

Over, baby, want  
— middle-child-freakin-struggles

* * *

Sometime around four when the grey light stains the room, she crawls into his lap.

He doesn't do anything other than rest his hand to her shoulder blade, the light press of his arm at her back. She cries because he's kind and good at the worst of times, and she's maybe only kind and good a handful.

And then she talks. She tells stories listlessly against his shoulder, stories she thought she could believe in, stories about moving past, letting go, settling into a life. Stories about the things she wants, the things that she's afraid are over.

He cups the back of her head when she says _baby_ and his arm tightens when she dreams _blue eyes_. She's hurting him, but she couldn't bear for him to think he was ever alone in this, and she doesn't know how long his patience will last. How long his charity.

For tonight, he said, but tomorrow? Messy and her head's not straight and she can't have him standing in the sniper's scope with her. She can't. She can't.

She trails darkness in her wake. She's afraid of what happens when the torture isn't just spiders. When it's his daughter kidnapped again. When it's his mother-

When it's not make-up but a zombie, when it's nightmares coming to life.

When it's _her_ life he's mired in, rather his life she's been changeling in the nest.

And now the sun has risen and her stories are dry in her mouth, all the versions of them extinguished by what comes over the horizon.

The center cannot hold.

Things fall apart.

She was foolish to ever think differently.

Kate rises from his lap, takes her weapon from the side table where it rests. She holsters her gun, swipes under her eyes to see clearly, and then heads for the door.

"You should leave now."

* * *

 **#216**

 _Formal request of a sequel of prompt 52 with three words: "not going anywhere"_

 _— 47SECONDSOFVERITAS_

* * *

 _"You should leave now."_

"No." Castle stays where he is, sitting in the lone chair in the darkness, this place that's not home, staring at her. "I'm not going anywhere."

She has her hand on the door knob; she freezes at his words.

 _Good,_ he thinks. Now she understands he's serious.

"Castle," she rasps, half-turning.

"I told you I have first watch." He gestures to the other lone piece of furniture, the table. "Put the gun back on the table and go to bed, Kate."

She trembles, scrapes her hair back from her face. Her throat works.

"It doesn't have to be like this," he says, keeping his voice as neutral as he possibly can. Not very. A lot of his frustration, his grief, textures his voice. "Burke in the morning, you said. So I stay right here until I can escort you there safely."

"I'm not - suicidal," she chokes out, a flashing look his way.

"No? Good. And trying to blow up your marriage isn't self-sabotaging either."

She hesitates, drops her hand from the top of her head, her hair falling around her face and hiding her eyes.

"Have you been drinking?" he says quietly.

"No," she growls.

"Good."

Her nostrils flare, her eyes lock on his. "I'm not _stupid."_

"Are you not?"

She hisses in a breath, presses her hand to her sternum. "I deserve that."

"No," he sighs. "You didn't." He rubs a hand down his face and shakes his head. "I'm staying. In the morning we'll both walk to Burke's office."

"I can't be…" She lifts her eyes, desperation in her face. "I keep doing this to you."

"I love you," he reminds. "And I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. I know better than that."

She hesitates, still at the entryway.

"Come on, Kate. Leave the gun. You don't feel safe, you were shot. Leave it to me."

"You shouldn't have to-"

"Protect my wife?" he says, giving her a sardonic glance. "Let's fulfill our gender stereotypes for a night, what do you say?"

She lets out a breath - it might be amusement, a little clutch of it - and walks back to him in the chair. She lays her weapon on the side table.

He opens his arms. "I know you don't have a bed here."

She fidgets before him for a moment; he won't drop his arms.

Kate finally crawls into the chair with him, legs slung over his, presses her cheek to the top of his shoulder. Folded up in his arms, fists in his shirt.

He doesn't try to kiss her, doesn't move his hands from their very neutral positions at her back and her knee. The chair is uncomfortable and stiff, not made for two people, the room dark and possibly without heat.

But this is infinitely better than his wife walking out on them.

—–


	40. san-francisco, fog, vacation

**#53**

* * *

san-francisco, fog, vacation ;)

— ANONYMOUS

(season 8 spoilers, projected season 9)

* * *

Kate takes his hand delicately in her own. Everything she does is so purposeful these days. Not hesitant, though an outsider might see it that way. As if they're new.

They're not new, but sharp. Like a tart fruit, not yet ripe. Like a blade, iron sharpening iron, honed to lethal functionality.

Ever since the end of things, she's been intentional with her every moment. With _their_ every moment.

"I want to show you something," she says thoughtfully. She studies his eyes these days, and he knows he crafted a careful mask over the years, a public persona to combat the private woundings, but never before has she calculated his every gesture for significance.

He finds himself wanting to tell her _it's okay, Kate. I'm okay._

But the truth is that he doesn't know.

So he uses distraction. "Did you come to San Francisco a lot as a college co-ed?" He uses a wink and a half-turned smile to make her think the worst of that question - leers and pot brownies and Haight&Ashbury and bra burning. Liberal hedonism on his brain.

"I did," she says, surprising him with her determined sobriety. "It's forty minutes. A little more with traffic. Every weekend we were here."

He's jealous, suddenly, of those friends included in her plural noun, the people who caught the end of carefree Kate Beckett. Those people who are long gone, married off or burdened with children, in jobs they've drowned in even though it gives them only faint sparks of life. Envious.

He can't help it. Now more than ever, he wishes he knew that woman. Wishes sometimes even that she were here with him, willing and eager and untouched.

He has willing again. She will always be untouched, no matter how much he tries to keep her.

Eager?

No. Determination leaves little room for joy these days.

Kate interlaces their fingers and walks slightly ahead of him, guiding him down a long block bisecting Nob Hill. The square is close, the trolley car turnaround too, but she's heading away from those well-known tourist locales.

They did Lombard Street when they arrived, his insistence, driving the rental car down the tight loops broken up only by flower beds. The line to descend almost made it worthless, the time souring between them, but by the end of it, they both found a balance again.

She hikes the next block, literally, taking the steps cut into the sidewalk in a crossover-foot motion, as if she's showing off for him. _Look what I can do._ She's been months healed from the gunshot that set off her spiral, but he finds her in odd places and off times, bent nearly in half, the scar clawing too tightly at her muscles.

All she says is, _I did it to myself._

He follows her up the block, disregarding the steps to push his toes into the concrete and flex his calves. After two days, the burn is deep, feels good, like budding endurance, and by the time they reach the crosswalk at the next intersection, he's pleased by the exertion.

"This way," she murmurs, turning left. "I think."

He follows, noting the hazy light in the manicured trees. Neither of them need sunglasses, though his are clipped to the front of his dress shirt, his sleeves rolled up in deference to how they've had to hike the hills of the city.

The sky is grey like a pearl, shifting prisms, and while he's marveling at the singularity of this place, she comes to a stop.

"I don't know," she breathes. "I thought I would never forget."

"It happens," he says easily, too cavalier for the moment, and he knows that's a wound too, but patterns of behavior are hard to change. "Sometimes, Kate, it just fades. We've replaced it with memories made more vital by time."

She shakes her head. Her lip tucks into her teeth but she straightens her shoulders. "I'll find it."

"Can I help you look?" He scans the street for signs, landmarks, turns back to glance at her when she's silent.

Her eyes are an apology. "I need to do this alone," she sighs.

Ah, yes. Six words that slay him. He bleeds from a thousand small cuts, because words will always hurt him. Especially hers.

"It's better if you're led to it," she tries again. "Better if I take you there, reveal everything at the end. The whole trek becomes worth it. I promise."

"I trust you," he says. It's not said easily, and she sees that too.

Kate nods and squeezes his hand, sets off in what looks like the opposite direction, retracing their steps until she finds something that must be familiar.

She takes him across Polk, avoids Van Ness, wanders into Huntington Park only to come up against Grace Cathedral. He pauses, for his own sake, lifting his eyes to the heights, the Gothic spires, a prayer or penance, he's not sure yet which.

She tugs him away, and he follows, though it's more like ambling side by side with occasional detours diverted by Kate.

And then it happens.

The sidewalk drops into a cedar staircase, an alleyway between two apartment buildings, and an entire garden blooms brilliant and golden before them.

"This is it," she breathes.

Baskets with red spilling blooms, palm fronds and wide-lipped mouths of leaves. Monarchs pump their wings, resting on open-faced blossoms, serenity wrapped so intrinsically in the scene that he has to stop at the top of the stairs, daring to go no farther.

He bends down to unlace his shoes for the sovereignty of trusting Kate Beckett.

Hallowed ground.

She watches him for a moment, and then a strange spark lights in her eyes. She toes off her sandals and hooks them in a finger, curls her toes on the wooden deck. He doesn't let himself think about practicalities and peculiarities, he only watches her.

"Come with me," she smiles. "Just wait. The day is exactly perfect for this."

He descends with her, down steps built between two buildings, an impossible display of burgeoning life. Fecund and rich, the soil redolent with nitrogen, the plants bursting with flower. Tendrils brush his arms. Trailing vines overhang the staircase in a green canopy.

Halfway down, he begins to understand.

He can see the haze coalescing right before his eyes. The creep of mist across their path. Another flight down lowers them slowly into the fog.

This is anything but little cat feet.

Her steps on the wood, her hand in his remind him of the solidity of physical things, even while the fog insinuates itself across their path. Through his eyelashes and into his lungs.

Fog, and the brush of green, and her hand in his.

He doesn't see her stop so much as feel her, and he waits, their journey a guess and nothing more.

She turns to him and places cool lips to the corner of his mouth, still asking, even if she no longer has to wait for his answer.

She kisses him in the white fog, a camilla blossom bursting pink and cream near her head, the scent of roses heavy.

She kisses him and brings his hand to her sternum, his fingertips at the old scar, and now this time he brings up his free hand on his own, palms her side where the new one puckers.

Her kiss falters but doesn't stop, her lips insistent, her tongue persuasive. He's breathing through the pauses of her own, the fits and starts of her ardor.

And then she nudges her nose into his and clings tighter to his hand.

He expects another end of things, expects endings now every time she pulls him along and then stops.

But she doesn't end. She breathes against his neck and sighs. "I came to the city almost every weekend, Castle, waiting for this moment."

"This?" he questions, distracted by the flutter of her lips against his skin.

"Sinking into the fog. No matter what I did, when I came, no matter time of day or change of season, Rick, it never happened for me. Everyone else got this moment, but not me."

"But now," he insists, wishing. So many wishes for her.

"Now I'm glad to find it with you, glad I never wasted it on that girl," she whispers. "She had no idea."

—–


	41. Stomach flu madness

**#54**

* * *

Stomach flu madness

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

He's going to throw up.

She can see it on his face, the horror of its inevitability, and Kate manages to dart away the second before it all comes back up on him.

Her stomach flips, which is interesting, because she's always had a solid stomach before. But she loves him, and he hates to throw up, and her sympathy is twinged to empathy right now.

Kate keeps a safe distance until he's done, and then she moves in and grips him by the arm, guides him to the bathroom. She takes the bucket from him, and he makes a weak protest, but she nudges him to the toilet.

"Stay. I've got this." She waits until he obeys, and then she clears out, giving him privacy and solitude to be sick.

She uses the laundry room sink to wash out the bucket, bleaching it thoroughly so that the fumes burn her nostrils. That's good too; the bedroom is getting ripe. Esposito started this whole thing, and she's going to give him hell for coming into the Twelfth with it last week, infecting everyone, but Espo has to get better first.

Then she will exact her revenge.

She brings back ginger ale and stale crackers, walking quietly into the bedroom. Castle has managed to get halfway there, slumped against the wall with his eyes closed.

"Rick."

Blue eyes flicker towards her, faded and dull with fever. He struggles upright and she hurries to set the tray on the floor out of the way, comes to his side to get him to the bed. His shirt is damp where it presses against her, his body has a strange slackness to it that she finds disconcerting.

She lowers him to the bed and he half collapses, tilting over onto his shoulder and mashing his face into the pillow.

Kate lets him stay there, only moves to lift his feet onto the bed. He's breathing slowly now, his body no longer tense with nausea, and she checks the bedside clock. The way it's been going, she has about two hours before it hits him again.

She leans in and touches her fingers to her lips, places her finger-kiss to his forehead. His eyes are closed. "Crackers if you want them," she murmurs softly, hoping instead that he'll get some sleep. It's late, and he was throwing up all last night too.

And then the night before, he was up doing the comforting and caretaking.

She heads out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, washes her hands thoroughly, up to her elbows just in case, and then she pours another ginger ale, makes up a plate of stale crackers. She carries these up the stairs, going slowly to keep from spilling.

She's felt not so great lately. She won't let herself get sick. Not now. Let it happen in two weeks' time, when everyone else has recovered.

She nudges open the bedroom door with her shoulder, peeks around it.

He's lying on the floor with the dog, looking absolutely pitiful, his eyes as fever blue as his daddy's.

Kate sinks down to her knees and places the ginger ale in front of him, the crackers, waits until he focuses on her.

"Mommy?"

"Hey, baby. You feel any better?"

He shrugs, the movement making his hand ruffle the dog's fur. The poor thing turns her nose into the boy and licks his chin.

"Were you trying to get to the bathroom?"

He shrugs again. "Floor feels cool."

"Okay, honey," she says softly, finally reaching in to lightly switch the hair off his forehead. He does feel cooler, actually. Though she's not allowed to touch him; he told her it hurt too much.

But instead of him drawing away from her fingers, her son whines and crawls right into her lap, wrapping his arms around her neck.

"Hey," she whispers, kissing the side of his face. "You do feel better, don't you?"

He huddles into her, whimpering a little, as if he's playing it up for effect. He wasn't two nights ago when Castle was the one trying to help the boy make it to the bathroom. But at least it seems to have run its course.

She touches her wrist to the side of his face, his temple. Warm. Cooler, yes, but still warm. "I brought up some ginger ale, just like Daddy's. You want to try it?"

He nods against her shoulder and Kate tilts him back a little, reaching for the glass. She hands it to him and he takes it in two hands, lifts it to his lips. His tongue touches the glass and darts out to the fizzy drink, but his face twists and he puts it way.

Kate laughs softly and takes the ginger ale. "That's okay. Don't worry. I've got your Gatorade downstairs, honey. Want me to put you back in bed and get it?"

"I wanna see Daddy."

She sighs and cups the back of his neck. His shoulders tense, and she loosens her hold, realizing his joints are still aching. Not quite through the woods yet then.

"Okay," she gives in. "For a little while. Daddy is sleeping. And you should be sleeping too."

He gives her a solemn face, and she knows better than to believe it, but maybe he'll fall asleep in their bed.

So she carries him downstairs to his father, because misery loves company.

—–

 **#150** (continuation of #54 stomach flu madness)

—–

She brings in his Gatorade and untwists the cap, stands at the foot of the bed and watches her son a moment. He's on his side, face to face with his father, though Castle is asleep and ignorant of his son's fascination.

"Hey, little bear, don't wake your daddy," she whispers. She steps up to her side of the bed and leaves the open bottle of yellow Gatorade on the side table, sinks down to the mattress. She touches her fingers to her son's shoulder and he flops to his back to look at her.

"I won't wake him," the boy whispers. His voice sounds funny, his vocal cords strained from three days of throwing up. But it seems to have run its course. Hopefully Castle can look forward to a similarly quick recovery.

The dog hops up onto the bed, settles herself at the foot. Kate and the boy both watch her nose into the blankets and swish her tail, happy to be with them even if they are sick.

Kate turns to her son. "Will you drink some for me? Need to get some fluids in you, kiddo." She takes the Gatorade and waves it in front of his nose, and the boy struggles to sit up, making a weak-limbed effort.

She has to curl an arm at his neck and prop him up, but he takes the Gatorade in his own hands, drinks slowly. His eyes dart from the bottle to her face, as if asking when he can stop.

She taps the bottom of the Gatorade and he lowers it, wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. She takes the bottle back and twists the top on it, puts it aside. "How're you feeling now?"

He gives a listless shrug and his eyes wander across the room. She knows it's hard for him, usually such an active boy, to be brought so far down with stomach flu. He's been whining all day, wanting to be well enough to play but unable to find the energy or endurance for it.

"How about I tell you a story," she sighs, shifting to sit beside her son at the headboard.

"I like Daddy's stories," he mumbles, but he leans against her, pressing his cheek to the side of her arm. He's been sitting so close these days, his sickness making him into a mommy's boy.

"I like Daddy's stories, too," she whispers back. She kisses their son's forehead and he cants into her. "Should we just sit here instead? Because I'm not waking up your dad just to tell us a story."

The boy sighs.

"No story then. What would help, little bear?"

"Scratch my back?" he says pitifully, turning his sad little face up to her.

She hides a smile and simply nods, and he flops onto her lap with his cheek against her thigh, arms around her legs. She lays both hands to his back, feels the heat of his low grade fever through his pajama shirt.

She rubs slowly, up and down, humming softly to both her boys.

It doesn't take long at all for him to fall asleep, sprawled over her legs, and she turns to Castle, leaning in a little. His mouth is open in sleep, lashes touching his cheeks, and though he looks flushed and tired, he's still such a beautiful man.

She touches her knuckles to his rough jaw, cups the side of his face.

Castle startles and jerks his head up, a bleary look. "What? What's wrong?"

"No, no, babe. Back to sleep. Nothing's wrong. Sleep while you can." She withdraws her touch and his head drops back to the pillow, but he snakes out an arm and tucks it around her and the boy both.

She's sitting too close; she's going to get the stomach flu next.

But it's worth it to be here for them.

—–


	42. Esposito: Hey, Becketts

**#55**

* * *

3 word prompt: Esposito: "Hey, Becketts."

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

Castle rounds the corner with his wife of nine days and Esposito hails them with an all too hearty, "Hey, Becketts!"

"Oh, har, har," Castle mutters, turns to his wife (his _wife_ , it still makes him giddy). "You put him up to this."

She giggles behind her hand, eyebrow lifting. "No. I swear."

"You did," he asserts. "But that's okay. That's fine. I forgive you."

"Becketts!" Ryan calls out, catching sight of them from his place at the murder board. "You're back."

Castle glares at Kate. She's grinning that Cheshire grin, all knowing innocence.

"Mr and Mrs Beckett, so good of you to join us this morning."

Castle spins on his heel and finds himself face to face with Gates; he issues a spluttering noise and not much else, but he feels Kate step up at his back, solidarity.

"Captain," he gets out, "Sir."

"Fill me in, Detectives."

He is so getting her back for this. Someway. Somehow. He is going to make her pay.

—–


	43. Girl Scout cookies

**#56** (set during season two)

* * *

Three words: Girl Scout cookies.

— BAMBOO72498

* * *

Beckett glances surreptitiously side to side, slides her hand to her desk drawer. It takes work to nudge the metal back, slowly, not to draw his attention as he plays Angry Birds on his phone. His chair is tilted away from her so that the light won't glare on his screen.

She eases her hand inside the drawer, holding her breath.

She falters when her fingers hit crinkling plastic, light as air.

Kate leans over, pulls her drawer open fully to investigate.

An empty sleeve. No Thin Mints in sight.

Her eyes cut up to Castle, narrowing on his face.

Pure, unadulterated innocence. Charm in spades. "Is something the matter, Detective?"

"You ate my Girl Scout cookies," she scowls.

"Moi?" He touches his hand to his chest, feigning shock. "You have _Girl Scout cookies_ and you didn't tell me?"

"Because i knew you'd eat them," she growls. "As you did anyway. Stop going through my drawers, Castle."

He grins wider at her, his thumbs paused on his phone. "This alleged crime you speak of-"

"Alleged," she hisses. "You ate every last one. I had a full sleeve in here."

"If I _did_ eat your cookies, hypothetically, it was only because it's four hours past dinner and you're still here."

"Which is why I wanted to eat _my_ cookies." She wants to hit him. She actually wants to solve her problems with violence, he's that frustrating. Talking round and round it.

"Which is why you should have said yes to my dinner invitation nearly three hours ago. Your cookies might have survived the evening." He eyes her critically, then shakes his head while she's still gaping for an answer. "No, I take that back. I doubt those Thin Mints would have survived."

She pokes him hard in the chest. "You just condemned yourself, Castle. I never said they were Thin Mints."

He catches her finger. "Since you're fresh out of cookies, come to dinner with me. Now. I find myself hungry again."

To her chagrin, her stomach grumbles and rolls with hunger. He only beams as if she's already given her consent.

"Fine," she gets out. "Dinner. But you're paying. Cookie Thief."

"I'm paying," he says, immediately agreeing. "And I'll finagle a box of Thin Mints out of my daughter. I think she has the hook-up with friends' little sisters at school."

She just agreed to a dinner date, didn't she?

"You set me up," she says suspiciously, but he's already getting to his feet and gathering his coat and her own. She finds herself hustled into it and through the bullpen.

Well, it is nearly nine. She ought to eat so she can come back fresh, new energy.

How does he always do this to her?

—–


	44. my day off

**#57**

* * *

my day off

— OHSWEETDARLING

* * *

Sunlight.

Sunlight and a buzzing/sawing at her ear that irritates deep, down to places that are usually strung tight, too alert, too responsive.

She whines and buries her face in the pillow, shutting out the stimuli, but it continues, chases after her.

A large body dips the mattress and hovers close, presses down against her side. Heat. Uncomfortable heaviness.

"It's my day _off_ ," she growls, elbowing back. "Ca-astle."

"Don't waste it sleeping the day away," he whispers. A kiss to her bare shoulder blade. A kiss to her bare spine. Oh, that's - nice. Very nice.

He could keep doing that.

"Ka-ate," he singsongs back at her. "I made coffee."

"Not tempted," she growls, wriggling deeper into the covers. She's mostly naked. She didn't have the energy last night to find her shirt after he pulled it off her, and he's always so warm and she likes to curl along his side and-

"It's the gourmet stuff," he whispers. "And it's freshly ground. I bought it this morning."

"When'd you have time for all that?" she grumbles. She's slowly becoming more aware, all this _talking_ dragging her up out of sleep. She elbows him again but he only shifts to her other side, teeth nipping at her drawn up shoulder.

"It's already eleven."

Kate groans, yielding to the inevitable day, rolling onto her back to look at him. "Eleven. You have got to be kidding me. Why'd you let me sleep so late?"

He's not exactly looking at her eyes, but when she makes her accusation, hot indignation suffuses his face, jerks his gaze up to her face. "Hey, now. Just thirty seconds ago you were digging into my ribs with your elbow and whining about how mean I was."

"I never said mean," she huffs, scraping her hand down her face. "I feel drugged."

"Were you drugged?" he squeaks.

She growls at him, shifting a knee up to lodge it in his sensitive ribs. He catches her thigh and squeezes, and for some reason, that distracted flicker of his eyes over her body, the strength of his grip on her knee - licks right through her.

"Rick."

Eagerness blooms in his face, and she realizes she used _that_ voice.

He's already shifting his body over hers, hips colliding, and she groans as her spine pops. He kisses her throat and surprises her with it, the electric lightness of his tongue.

"Castle," she whispers.

"Just making up for lost time."

—–


	45. mommy and daddy

**#58**

* * *

mommy and daddy

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

Kate holds the little thing carefully in the crook of her arm, protective, her steps light and somehow hesitant as she walks through the door of the loft. Castle touches her shoulder for her to wait on him, and she does, watching him put away their things in the coat closet, hurrying around her to get everything ready.

His eyes keep coming back to her, to them, and his eagerness is entirely endearing. Her heart is making little flips in her throat so that she can't even speak.

Castle gestures to the couch and she goes, taking care to be easy, not startle him. He's so small, and his eyes are startlingly blue, but they're on her, not the new place they've brought him to.

He's also chewing on her finger.

"Hey, there, little guy," Castle murmurs, leaning in over her arm to pet the puppy. "How do you like your new home?"

Kate lays him in her lap, smoothing his belly as he wriggles, still chewing on her finger with his back teeth. He's so small it barely makes a dent, but they'll have to break him of the habit soon. Their furniture and wood detail won't survive.

"Mommy and Daddy are so happy to have you-"

She turns and glares at Castle. "Mommy and _Daddy_? No. Castle. We are not pet parents. That's ridiculous."

He gives her a little pout, leans in to brace his chin on her shoulder, reaching past her to pet the miniature Husky they rescued this morning. "But having a pet is just a trial run for the real thing, Kate. Isn't it, buddy? Tell Mommy I'm right."

Kate grimaces, but the dog is just _so_ adorable. The white socks on his tiny paws, the soft-as-down fur on his belly, the black mask across his face.

She leans in over the dog and kisses his soft, wet nose. "Okay. Okay. Fine. Call me Mommy. You're worth it."

—–


	46. renewing their vows

**#60**

* * *

renewing their vows

— ANONYMOUS

(Written on my phone please forgive)

* * *

He wants a ceremony but she can't stand the attention after everything. He doesn't want her to feel ashamed because she did what was necessary to preserve them and that's all he cares about.

"A ceremony of our own, Castle," she murmurs to him. Her fingers are hooked around the button of his shirt. She's going to pop it open if she isn't careful.

"All our own," he agrees softly.

"I want it to mean something."

He won't say that a renewal of their vows ought to have meaning regardless. That the first ceremony was their wedding day and that alone should have meant something too.

It did. It meant something. But perhaps the execution of those vows is different for them.

They wait on a wooden bench outside the little room. Closed door with concert posters tacked up with tape. This isn't where he would have chosen but she knows the owner. Previous conviction no doubt but he doesn't ask.

The door cracks open and a guy entirely Rick's opposite walks out flexing his hand. On the back of it is a massive and complex Gaelic symbol. Slick with petroleum jelly and covered by plastic wrap.

Cool but also kind of ridiculous.

Kate is sober beside him.

She stands and he moves to stand with her but she shakes her head. He's bewildered but she leans over and kisses the corner of his mouth.

"It's a surprise."

So he waits. It takes longer than he expected. But when she finally emerged from the little room, she has a shiny black inked tattoo at the base of her thumb.

"It's a rook!" He jerks his eyes up to hers.

She nods and as the tattoo artist is trying to give after care instructions Kate flashes him.

Well, not truly flashing him. But she pulls her shirt down and he sees on her collarbone another one. Shiny with gel and wrapped just like the rook.

castle

He can't quite comprehend it. She actually tattooed his name on her clavicle.

"A ceremony might have been easier," he says but he knows he's crowding at her back, inhaling the scent of ink and her skin.

"For you maybe."

He lifts an eyebrow. He's not a tattoo kind of guy. But suddenly.

She shakes her head. "No."

But suddenly. "Vows, right?"

And he turns to the inker and puts his credit card on the counter. "I want Kate."

Because he does. He just wants Kate.

—–


	47. work, accident, concussion

**#61** (Post-ep tag for XY/XX)

* * *

Three words: work, accident, concussion (post couple)

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

He stood for a moment, a long moment, the jagged edges of his heart sending the blood pulsing painfully through his body.

He breathed in between the pulses, closed his eye on the grinding at the back of his head. He could smell the chocolate burning. He could feel his feet inside his shoes, cramped, too tight. His head was killing him.

She had walked out.

The world spun dizzily, madly, and he threw out his arms for balance, but it did no good. He dropped to his knees with a grunt, his jaw rattling, the bones of his skull shifting in ways they shouldn't.

Kate - Kate hurt. It hurt. But this was - different.

Castle loosed a hissing breath and gingerly touched the back of his head. His neck still ached with whiplash, but he had shrugged off the officer's offer for paramedics. He'd been too concerned, at the time, with the phantom disappearance of his wife from the scene, her urgent kiss good-bye, to pay any heed to the swimming of his vision.

Well, now he was seeing double.

Castle grit his teeth and eased himself to the couch, sinking his head in his hands. His breaths were painful, squeezed as they were by the tightness in his chest - Kate leaving him, Kate left him, Kate had left him - but the pulse in his head was quickly clamoring for attention.

"Richard? Why on earth is the door open, darling?"

He cracked open an eye to find his mother striding inside. Yup, still seeing double. Two Martha Rodgers.

He shuddered.

She slammed the door and he yelped, the reverberation echoing in the broken parts of his head.

"What's wrong with you?" she said. "You're as white as a sheet, what have you-"

He hid his eyes behind his hand, tried to find an answer for that. "Just - a headache." And she left. She left. She-

Clucking tongue, cold fingers to the back of his head. He grunted as she pressed too hard, swatted her hand away. "Mother-"

"You have a fat knot on the back of your head. Was that from-"

"Yes," he got out. Ducking her reach, he got back to his feet - only to pitch precariously, his balance off-put by the overlay in his vision. "I think I have a concussion."

"You think? Did you not get checked by paramedics?"

"No. No, I-"

"Where is Katherine? Did she head back to the precinct? I guess I'll have to take you to the minor med." A put upon sigh, a dramatic flair of her hand, and suddenly Castle wanted nothing more than to be alone.

"No," he got out. "It's fine. I'll take Advil and go to bed."

"Are you supposed to sleep with a concussion?" she tsked.

What the hell does he care? "I don't know. Why not?"

"Richard."

"I'm fine. Mother. I'm fine."

He wasn't fine.

Nothing was fine.

But he couldn't be in the damn hospital while Kate - did whatever reckless and stupid thing she thought she had to do. He was supposed to be doing it _with_ her. Not left behind.

But a concussion wasn't going to convince her of that.

"Richard-"

"I'm fine. Let me just get some sleep."

"The stove is on fire, darling."

He took a long, shaky breath and moved his head slowly to look.

Ah, it was. The whole thing had burnt to a crisp. It had all gone up in smoke.

—–


	48. Beckett concussion blind

**#63 & #144**

* * *

Beckett+concussion= blind (temporarily) Thank you!  
— writergirl133

* * *

He's struggling up to go after the guy, when Beckett collects herself first and races past him in the narrow alley. She tackles their suspect, full body barrel roll, both of them coming down hard.

Castle gets to his knees at the same moment the side of her head hits the brick wall and then bounces to the pavement. The suspect's skull cracks into the metal dumpster and both groan, metal and man, but Kate is very very still.

"Beckett," he croaks, his own head ringing with the blow he received. But he gets to his feet and slogs forward, shoves their suspect back hard enough to topple him again. "You're under arrest, asshole."

Kate is unconscious. He checks her pulse under her neck with two fingers, finds it steady, rounds on their suspect. The man is struggling to get up and Castle shoves him again, knocking him back, and searches for Kate's cuffs.

He cuffs the guy, pushes him to sit down against the wall, comes back to Kate. Her lashes are fluttering now, a groan slips past her lips.

"Hit your head, pretty hard," he says, just as her whole body stiffens. He lays his hand on her shoulder. "Stay down. I think you should give yourself a second."

"Tomes?"

"Got him. Waiting on the cavalry."

"Castle," she whispers. Her fingers tighten around his wrist, a claw. "Castle, I can't see."

"What do you mean, you can't see?"

She grits her teeth and tries to sit up, but it's entirely clumsy, it's her whole body pitching to one side and him having to catch her. "I can't - everything is black."

—–

 **#144**

(continuation of #63 - Beckett temporarily blind) set Season 4 for angsty fun

* * *

 _More #63 please?_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

She watches the blue and white disappear down the corner and grits her teeth to withstand the ache in her head. When she looks at her partner, he stands like a shade on the sidewalk.

"I think you should get it checked out," he says, hesitancy in the draw of his face. Such - regard for her. It's almost overwhelming just how much he cares.

That she can _see_ his face feels like a miracle too, but she shakes her head to shake him off.

Pain lances up the back of her skull and behind her eye, and for a moment, everything blurs.

"Beckett," he says tightly. "This is ridiculous. You were _blind_."

"And now I can see," she interrupts. She sees so _much_. The concern that radiates from him, his feelings for her evident in every line.

"I really think you need medical attention," he says, his voice as stressed as his body. The strain of holding himself back from her. "We should go to the hospital."

"No," she says quickly. "The uniforms have already left. I have to get back to the precinct so I can book Tomes."

His lips thin with unhappiness. And _how_ unhappy, how very unhappy he is, how his eyes shutter ineffectively to hide it.

Makes her chest tight, the scar pulling at the edges of her heart. "Castle, don't do this right now."

He stops looking at her, the shift of his gaze like stepping out of the stage lights into cool dark relief.

She turns her head carefully to her car, the blur minor. "Let's go," she says. But she reaches out for the passenger door and opens it before he can move, sinks down into the seat. Closes her eyes.

Blessed dark.

"Kate?"

She doesn't have to see him to know he's taken aback. Stunned by her. His grief is so close to the surface it's almost a taste in the air.

"It'd be better if you drove," she says, teeth grinding in the effort to keep her head immobile. "And after I'm finished with Tomes-"

"Then you'll go?"

She closes her mouth, swallows. "Then."

She can hear his rush of relief, and she opens her eyes. It's not grief. She was wrong. She can see so much more clearly now.

It's not grief in his eyes when he looks at her.

It's love.

—–


	49. NyQuil, sneezing, cuddles

**#64**

* * *

NyQuil, sneezing, cuddles

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

"I'm gross."

"You're not gross," he promised. "Just - runny."

"That's gross," she whined, burying her head in the cushion of the couch. He came around from the kitchen and nudged her knee with a foot.

"Okay, a little gross, but I still love you. Here, take this. You need to sleep tonight. Not like last night."

She groaned but turned her head, cracking open an eye. He lowered the clear measuring cup of NyQuil, the dark viscous fluid like blood. She took it, knocked it back fast, wincing.

"You don't like the taste?" he remarked, taking the empty from her. "I love it. My favorite part of being sick-"

"There is no favorite part of being sick. And, ug, ug. I hate this stuff. It stays in your throat."

"It's supposed to," he said, trying not to laugh at her. He rinsed the cup in the sink, washed his hands again. "Coats your throat to keep you from coughing all night as stuff drains down."

"Gross. Castle. That's gross. Stop talking about it."

He came back to her on the couch, sinking down into the cushions to arrange her against him. She fought him a little, weakly though, and he managed to curl her at his side. "I'll stop. If you sleep."

"Can't. I feel too miserable."

"You're a lot more melodramatic than I expected," he whispered to the top of her head.

She whined and tried to get free again, but he had an arm around her shoulders and she was no match for him. Not in this state anyway. She'd had about two doses worth of cold medicine today, and now the NyQuil, and she hadn't felt like eating anything, and it all combined to make her a little sweat-damp and shaky.

She had appropriated all of his handkerchiefs, which he didn't mind, though the silk - he'd probably never use those again. And she'd been a lot more pathetic and whimpery than he'd expected, but the natural caretaker in him had been delighted by all of it.

Not taking joy in her pain, per se. No. Just completely contented to be right here. Right here with her.

Her forehead came to his neck, hot and flushed, though her fingers were cold where she buried them under his shirt, pressed to his waist. He rubbed her back with one hand and got comfortable himself, ignoring the indignity of her sniffling nose as she used his purple silk for such low-brow purposes.

She curled up then, arms in, knees pulled up, her body going slack. The NyQuil worked fast the first time, though a few days in a row of this and she'd be impervious to it.

But for now, this was nice. She'd stopped coughing too, though her breathing sounded ragged on every inhale. Her mouth was open against his collarbone and he could feel the drool collecting.

Gross, but not gross. He had a kid, he'd done this before, and that changed things. How you loved someone so much - it made it different. Alexis had thrown up on him - more than once; she liked to cuddle when she was sick - and it was just different.

He stroked the hair at Kate's temple and behind her ear. Her lungs were loud and labored. Her body was heavy. He hooked both arms low around her waist and laid his cheek to the top of her head.

She jerked and startled, her hand gripping hard in his shirt. "Castle."

"I'm here. You're okay."

"Castle," she mumbled.

"I'm here."

"I miss you," she sighed, and he realized it was a dream.

"You don't have to miss me," he whispered, brushing a kiss to the corner of her eye. "I'm right here."

—–


	50. panic attack Kate

**#65**

* * *

3 words: panic attack Kate Please post couple! :)

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

She wakes drenched in sweat and crazy.

Crazy.

God. She can't-

She lurches out of bed, trips on the trail of comforter, crashes to her knees. Her lungs are so tight she can't breathe; she bends over and gasps for breath, wheezing, burning.

She can't stop shaking. Crazy. Her heart is twisting in her chest. Everything is twisting. Everything.

Phantoms and terror. The frantic pulse in her throat. The wild crazy tearing up her insides-

"Breathe."

She sucks futilely at the air, back arching as if that will help.

"Breathe, Beckett." His hands cup her face and drag her upright. She claws at his wrists, eyes peeled wide. "You can breathe, you can do this. Breathe."

Her air whistles through her teeth but it comes, it comes.

"There we go. Breath in, and breathe out again. Important to do that last part."

She strangles on a sob - it was supposed to have been laughter - and he draws her carefully to his side to lean against the foot of the bed. Their shoulders touch and she sucks in another wicked breath.

He holds her hand, smoothing his thumb around and around the base of her own, along her wrist, giving her rhythm to match her breathing.

After a long time, she can tilt her head back and let the tears streak down her face, the letdown of adrenaline and anxiety. Rolling back to her ears and she swipes at them with a free hand, gulping her breaths now, greedy for oxygen.

He turns only slightly and brushes his knuckle to the corner of her eye, taking tears with it. He doesn't try to touch her otherwise, and her gratefulness is nearly crushing.

When she's breathing again, when the tears are simply fresh tracks and no longer trails, Castle gets to his feet and holds his hands out to help her up.

"Come on. Scrabble rematch. Now that you're handicapped, I'm sure to win."

She lets him lift her to her feet, something like her old self struggling to break the surface of her panic attack.

"Thank you," she scrapes out.

He squeezes her hands but lets go, heading into his office to get the board and tiles. "You think I'm kidding? I'm going to be merciless. Blood in the water, Beckett, and I'm going in for the kill."

—–

After he's won two games straight, her posture is no longer rigid, her eyes don't reflect back only darkness.

He's been properly melodramatic, and he is rather proud of himself for winning - and not just Scrabble - when she leans in and takes his face in her hands.

"I really love you."

And only then does he lead her back to bed, tuck himself in behind her, and hold her until she falls asleep.

—–


	51. Hospital, iv, needles

**#66, #128, #139**

* * *

Hospital,iv,needles (based on the night I had)

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

There was a slur to her voice when she tried to ask, but he seemed to know.

"You were dehydrated." He leaned in and stroked the hair back from her face. He didn't look so good himself. She ached in strange places. "Didn't respond to the antidote."

"You?" She remembered falling into him as everything went black. Remembered the numbness in her lips. It was still there.

"Okay," he said.

She didn't know. Found her eyes too heavy to open. Felt heavy everywhere. "Castle."

"S'okay. It's okay."

"Don't believe you," she mumbled, dragging her gaze to him. Trying to work past her raw throat.

He was - emaciated. His jaw so prominent that his chin looked sharp. His eyes were burning as he watched her, his nose hawkish, cheekbones slashed.

He had one of her hands clasped in both of his, her fingertips pressed to his lips. She didn't feel it. But he had an IV in the back of his hand.

"Should be in bed," she got out finally.

"I will. I will," he soothed. He wouldn't. They both knew that.

"You were - worse off than me." He kept giving her whatever they'd found to eat; she remembered that. Why had she let him do that? He looked wasted away. "Worse than me."

She tried to flex her fingers in his grip, against her husband's lips, but she couldn't seem to make it work. "There - was a snake? Bit by a snake."

He grunted and bowed his head. "Yeah, there was - yeah. Do you remember - anything before that?"

"Plane," she whispered.

"Our plane crashed," he said. His voice was like gravel. "Do you - remember anything else?"

She was having a hard time finding pieces. Nothing was there to grasp. "No? No, I… it's all just - blurred." She blinked and tried to swallow past the dryness in her throat, wanted to ease the grief written into his face. "Deserted island was a bit of a letdown."

He didn't laugh. He just stared at her, her hand caught between his own. His eyes closed and his lips pressed to her fingers, and still she couldn't feel them, not quite. Snake venom, there at the end. Bitten by a snake and fever.

"Castle," she rasped.

He pressed her fingers tighter to his lips, his eyes closed.

"Castle, I do remember."

He lifted his head, but he looked - so awful. He looked wrecked. She must really have scared him; she must have almost died.

"I remember the most important thing," she whispered.

"You do." His eyes closed and his grip tightened, then he opened his eyes again like he had to brace himself. "You remember."

"I remember I love you." Her fingers twitched in his and her heart soared, hope. "I love you."

Castle's face crumpled, but even as he cried, he was nodding. "Yes, yeah, you're right. That's the most important thing. I love you, too, Kate. I love you."

She couldn't keep her eyes open, even though her tingling fingers were trailed in his tears. Even though he hunched over her bedside with the IV still in his own hand. Even though she knew there was more.

More to this story than what she was remembering.

"Is it something bad?" she murmured, already being dragged into darkness.

"I'll tell you later," he whispered. And then he placed a kiss to the middle of her palm that she felt. "The important things are here. Sleep, Kate. Sleep and heal."

—–

* * *

 **#128**

* * *

# 66 continuation (that's 3!)

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

She sat stiffly on the bed, feet hanging to the floor, two fingers touching her chapped lips.

Over and over.

Rough skin, bleeding skin.

"Kate."

She lifted her head and saw him being wheeled through the door. His skin hung on his bones. They had been on that island for nineteen days, and they had lost-

They had lost.

The orderly pushed Castle's wheelchair to the second bed and then hoisted him up like a doll. She watched, her fingers against her mouth, as Castle leaned back against the raised head and lifted his feet up, got situated.

"Finally listened to me," he said, voice like sandpaper. "We're inmates together."

She nodded. The orderly was leaving, taking the wheelchair. Castle no longer had an IV, though she still thought he was too thin. She didn't want to lose anymore.

"Kate."

She lifted her head, startled by the heat in his voice. He kept cracking the careful ice that encased her, every word, every story he told, every time he opened his mouth and promised her things.

"Please."

She took a ragged breath into her lungs, into a chest that ached continuously. But she put her feet to the cold floor, felt the numbness trembling, felt herself breaking as she stepped towards him.

He lifted a hand for her, caught her wrist. He didn't have to drag her into him, but it was nice to be pulled against her own will. Nice to have him wrap an arm around her and feel his strength.

She crawled into bed with him and laid flush to his side, the heat of his body melting through to her bones. He pressed his palm over her ear and kissed the ridge of her eyebrow, the slope of her nose.

He had stopped saying it was okay. She was grateful for that.

But this was new.

"I've got you," he roughed. His voice raw. She felt his tears splash hotly to the top of her head.

She closed her eyes and pressed her face to his chest. His bones rubbing against her bones, both of them had lost-

"I've got you now. I love you, Kate."

His hand was heavy on her head, squeezing out the tears from her eyes, one after another. One after another.

They had lost their baby.

—–

* * *

 **#139**

* * *

# 66 prequel (also 3!)

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

Castle leaned in over her, the helicopter so loud he wasn't sure his weak voice could be heard. "Hush, honey, you're gonna be fine now."

"No," she sobbed. "No, no-"

"Paramedics, it's just the paramedic," he roughed out. His throat was dry as sand and he could barely hold himself up. He hadn't eaten in three days, water sometime yesterday. The medic kept trying to stick him with a needle but Kate-

"No," she wept, dry as dust, no tears, just that terrible wrenching noise that came up from her hollowed out chest.

"I know," he croaked, bowing his head over hers. She couldn't hear him, couldn't hear a word over the chopper blades, he knew, he _knew;_ she had been delirious for three days and she hadn't heard him then either. "I know, honey. I'm so sorry."

The paramedic was tugging him away, and he was too weak to push the man off, too weak. He could barely lift his head, and the medic shoved him back against the other side, the cold metal of the medevac air bus, but he knew it was already too late.

"What kind of snake, sir?" The medic was taking his pulse at his neck, leaning in to shout. "What kind of snake-"

"Rattle," he croaked out.

"That's good," the man yelled, giving him a thumb's up. "That's very good. Pit vipers will sometimes have a dry bite. No venom. Or very little venom. That's good news."

Good news.

"No," she keened, pulling out of the soft restraints. The medic turned back and eased her to the gurney and Castle tried to lurch forward, his whole body betraying him.

"No, sir, you need to stay right here." The medic put an oxygen mask over him and it fogged with his hard breaths. The man leaned in, shouted in his ear, "Were you bit?"

He shook his head, his eyes on Kate on the gurney, the way she was still doubled in pain, the grief across her face. "Just her." His breath rattled hard in the husk of his lungs and he squeezed his eyes shut, pushed back the terror that had gnawed at him for three days. He opened his eyes. "She's pregnant. She's - pregnant. Sixty-three days. But I think-"

The medic's gaze snapped to his and the grief rocked him hard, caught him like talons in his throat.

Castle bowed his head forward, the mask fogging with tears. He pushed off against the bench and found her hand again, squeezed hard enough for her to know he was there.

"We've got an IV and her breathing is good," the medic shouted at his back, trying to push past him. "Is she allergic to horse or sheep products?"

"No?" Castle dragged his eyes back to the medic, but he was still blocking the way. He couldn't seem to move to let the man by. "No, no allergies."

"Antivenom treatment. She probably won't need a full course. The bite looks to be local with minimal symptoms. You did exactly right, sir. Everything you could for her."

Not enough. Oh, God. Not enough to save- "But she's - in pain. She's in a lot of pain-"

"I know, and that's why I need to be right here."

"The snake-"

"It's not the snake bite - it's the spontaneous abortion, sir. I'm sorry. You need to let me get in there so I can keep her from going into shock."

Shock.

"Oh, God. Kate."

"We're only a few minutes out. She's survived three days out there; she's going to be okay. Sit down, sir. You have to sit down."

He sank back to the bench and buried his head in his hands, crying into the oxygen mask.

—–


	52. Sir Claude's missing

**#67**

* * *

Sir Claude's missing.

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

(Sir Claude is Maisie's dog from This Is the Dreamworld) This Is the Dreamworld 2 was a prequel of sorts to that, and there was a Christmas edition as well which would happen after this)

btw, this is inspired by Jeremy Affeldt's retirement speech (excerpted) from the San Francisco Giants. he told a story similar and it struck me how willing we are for a bunch of grown men with families, with young children, to leave their kids for eight months out of the year to play a game. but suggest that a woman like Beckett have a career which requires her to live in a different city from her family, a career in which she saves the country from terrorists, and it's suddenly not okay.

feminist rant over

* * *

"Mom, you have to come home."

Kate pauses in the middle of the war room, holds her finger up to Rachel McCord. "Maisie. We've talked about this."

"You have to come home. I want you to come home, right _now_ -"

There's a commotion on the other end and then the sounds of the phone being taken away, Castle's breathless apology. "I didn't know she'd say that. She's been beside herself, and she's melodramatic, I know, but-"

"Beside herself?" Kate says sharply, cutting through the apology. "What's happened?"

"She didn't say? Maisie lost Sir Claude-" A shriek and Kate winces, can practically hear Castle wincing on the other end. "Apologies, Sir Claude is simply lost. Somewhere inside the building. Maisie took him down to the storage room, looking for Halloween decorations."

Kate groans, rubbing the bridge of her nose. She's stupidly fond of the Corgi she never intended to buy for their daughter. "I feel like this is my fault."

"No, Kate, it's-"

"I was supposed to have Sir Claude with me this week."

They've worked out a system. It's a lot like joint custody - between her and Maisie. She's fond of the stupid dog that much.

"It would've happened sooner or later. Sir Claude likes to dash off."

"Put the little bug on the phone again," Kate sighs.

"You sure?"

"Yeah." She leans back against the cinder block wall, holds up a finger to McCord who is tapping her watch. She doesn't really have time for this, but she has to make time. She has to. This is her life; this is how it works.

"Mom?" Her daughter sounds tear-streaked.

"Hey, Maze. I hear Sir Claude is lost somewhere in the building?"

A whimper. "He got on the elevator without me."

Kate tries not to smile, really has to work to suppress it. "Did you know that you did that to me one time too?"

"I _know_ ," Maisie wailed. "Dad already said that one. Mom, he's _gone_."

"He's not gone," she promises quietly. "Here's what you need to do. Are you paying attention, Maze?"

She can almost hear her daughter straightening up, squaring her thin five-year-old shoulders. Kate has learned how to decipher these things over a phone line, a skype video chat. Her daughter's quick breath means she's getting control of herself again. "I'm paying attention."

"First thing. Do some detective work, okay?"

"Yes, detective," Maisie thrills. "I can do that."

"Take Dad with you down to talk to Eduardo, and ask him pretty please, in your best, most convincing Gram-voice, ask him pretty please can he look at the security footage and see what floor Sir Claude's elevator let him off on?"

"Oh, Mom. Mom, you are so _smart."_

"And then get on Dad's laptop and make a handful of flyers. Put Sir Claude's picture in the middle and our apartment number and phone number for people to reach us. Then have Daddy got with you to knock on doors on that floor."

"Mom, I love you, I love you, I love you."

She laughs and hears kisses smeared against the phone and then the clatter as it falls, her daughter's _Daddy_ shrieked across the loft.

She hangs up, slides into the meeting with McCord she put off.

—–

When her phone vibrates in her pocket, she carefully checks it under the table.

She finds a picture from Castle waiting for her: Sir Claude licking Maisie's cheeks and her daughter's joyful, overwhelmed expression.

 _Found. Thanks, Sherlock._

 _—–_


	53. carry Kate bed

**#68** (season 8 spoilers)

* * *

Three words prompt: carry Kate bed

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

There was a disturbing slackness to her jaw. The shadow under her neck made her skin look bruised.

It might have been bruised; he didn't know.

He had found her this way, curled in a lone chair in her apartment, and she hadn't even stirred when he'd unlocked her door, or closed it behind him, or locked it again. Not even a twitch.

He was almost afraid to touch her.

But he did, two fingers to her neck where he found her pulse thumping slowly, certainly. Without a doubt. He let out his relief in a sigh and went to his knees before the chair, leaned his forehead against the arm.

He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't have followed her back from the precinct; he was supposed to be giving her space.

Everything in him cried out against space. Space had been three months that summer and not a phone call, not a word, not a hint until she'd chased him down at a book signing, shy but fierce, a woman entirely unlike the one he thought he'd known, and yet deeper, more her, somehow.

He wanted his wife back. He wasn't a fan of space.

She was exhausted, whatever she was doing when she wasn't at the Twelfth. And he knew it was _something,_ he just hadn't fit all the pieces together.

Castle straightened up, still on his knees before her, though she didn't see him, and he carefully slid his arms under her knees and neck, drew her body down into his lap.

Did he imagine the way she turned into him?

He hadn't imagined her _I'll always love you_ and he hadn't imagined the tenderness as she regarded him in the bullpen. He was so good at imagining things though, so very good at wishful thinking, that sometimes he made it up in his head. Like love at first sight. Like annoyance masking her smittenness. Like loving him back.

But he didn't imagine this, her fist in his shirt and her soft sigh, the way her body eased against his.

Castle stood slowly, using the chair for leverage until he was on his feet once more. He carried her back through the apartment to the bedroom he knew so well, a bedroom she had once made space _for_ him rather than to get away from him. He carried her to her bed and laid her down on top of the covers.

In her sleep, she released his shirt and her hand fell to the mattress.

He took off her shoes and pulled the covers out form under her, raised them up to her shoulders and tucked her in.

He stood and watched her in the darkness for a moment, the wanting so thick in his throat that he had to swallow against it. Had to blink hard to keep his vision clear so he could memorize the smudged lines of her face in the shadows.

And then turned and left her to it.

—–


	54. Can we please?

**#69**

* * *

Three word prompt: Can we please?

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

(very suggestive, probably rated M - hello it's #69)

—–

Her mouth was hot over his mouth - open and panting as her her hips worked hard into his groin.

"Kate," he grunted, elbows knocking into the arms of his office chair, one of his knees slamming into the underside of the desk, bones vibrating with the hits. "Kate."

"Can we please?" she whined.

Hell, he loved it when she begged. "That wasn't a _no_ ," he growled, trying to stand. "That was a fuck, can't you stop long enough to let me _get_ us there?"

She laughed, throaty and dark, a host of _just you wait_ in that sound. Her arms wrapped around his neck and shoulders; she kissed him, dirty.

And then she rose from his lap, her fingers wrapping around the lapels of his robe and tugging. He slammed shut the laptop and came with her, untangling himself from his office chair, stumbling after her come hither beckoning body.

She shoved him down on his bed and climbed up his body, perched on his chest as she divested herself of tank top and sports bra. He got to help with the running shorts, gasping when she settled backwards on his sternum once more, groaning when she rubbed against him, staining his t-shirt.

Her perfect ass wriggling in his face, encouraging, teasing. He gripped her flanks and tilted his head, moaning when she touched him.

"Mm, love when I can make you wordless."

He tried - hell, he tried - but nothing was there. She was clever fingers down his boxers as his eyes rolled back in his head, and he had to get in the damn game.

"Come on, Rick, you're losing it."

He growled, some of the tight terrible tension loosening as she settled into a rhythm, and he finally gripped her hips, dragged her back to his mouth.

Heaven.

—–

He made her beg for it.

—–

She made him _crazy._

 _—–_


	55. Bless you Beckett

**#70**

* * *

Bless you. Beckett

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

Kate shifted on her side, wincing as her muscles pulled and the bruises flared. Her ribs ached. Last night she hadn't given it a second thought, battered as she was, caught up in him. Now she wished she'd taken a few more precautions, maybe not done that thing with her-

The knock on her door startled her. She groaned and took a fortifying breath before bracing her hands on her knees and pushing off the couch.

Ow. Everything hurt. Stung. She had gone toe to toe with a hired assassin and it showed in the lurid bruises that lit up her ribs and back. Even if Castle hadn't noticed.

She was still not entirely happy at being shoved into his closet.

The knock came at the door again - she was too slow, but she couldn't do a damn thing about it. Kate eased forward and finally leaned against the door, checking the peephole.

Castle. Goofy man, smiling like an idiot into the fisheye.

She huffed but flipped the deadbolt, twisted the knob to allow him inside. Castle had his hands behind his back but before she could peek, he was catching the side of her face in a hand and kissing her senseless.

She barely breathed, stunned silly by the force of his presence and the heat of his mouth on hers. When she moaned, it was both pain and pleasure, and it pulled him away from her.

She found herself leaning out after him, but he touched her bottom lip with his thumb and her eyes fluttered open.

His eyes searched hers. "You're beautiful, you know."

She flushed and dropped back flat on her bare feet, brought her hand up to cradle his. He made her combust - and then he said something like that and it went through her like quicklime.

"Kate? Brought you something."

She blinked and saw he was bringing a shopping bag out from behind his back, hidden all this time. She glanced up at him, narrowing her eyes, and he smiled his secret smile, shoulders wriggling like a little boy.

"Come on," he said, taking her hand that was around his, tugging her towards the couch. She came after him, part of her faintly recognizing that he was like a drug - he had anesthetized her bruises with a kiss.

This was getting ridiculous. She felt ridiculous. She felt like she was eighteen again and filled with _hope_. Or at least that heady sense that nothing bad could possibly happen to her.

Though she was wary of what he had in that bag. Was he already bringing a little spice into the bedroom?

Castle sat close enough that his knees nudged hers, but he opened up the bag and started pulling things out. Epsom salts, chemical ice packs, icy hot and tiger balm, rib tape.

Her mouth dropped open and she darted her eyes up to his.

"Thought maybe you needed some doctoring. Or nursing?" His eyebrows danced. "I could be your naughty nurse."

Kate laughed, bringing her hand to her mouth to shake her head at him. She swallowed hard past the tightness in her throat and leaned in to him, kissed him very softly, for how tender she felt towards him.

"Bless you," she whispered.

She hadn't thought he had even noticed.

—–


	56. first anniversary gifts

**#72** (season 8 Spoilers)

* * *

first anniversary gifts

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

When she arrived home, she was greeted with blaring music and the jarring discord of a melody she didn't know at first blush.

And then the lyrics boomed through the loft and she cringed: _Looks like we made it!_

Immediately, Castle cut off the song, pushing his phone into his breast pocket, grinning at her.

She narrowed her eyes at him, stepping out of her shoes in a symbolic act she hoped he understood despite the cheesy song. "You do know that Barry Manilow is singing about two _former_ lovers who resist cheating on their spouses with each other?"

"Ooh, Beckett, you know your Manilow, sexy." He grinned wider and caught her hips in his hands, drew her inexorably towards him. She came, of course, stumbling and tripping over her own shoes, that anxious to be pressed against his chest.

She sighed and slid her arms around him, closing her eyes as he tucked her under his chin. Where she belonged.

"Still," he murmured into the top of her head. "Looks like we made it."

"Happy anniversary," she whispered. _Happy._ It might not have been if-

"It is," he told her. "And stronger for everything else unhappy, Kate. Don't regret it; move forward."

She held him tighter, grateful for the state of grace his love continued to be, and her own, and even though she had told him _no gifts, just you_ , she had something for him. To prove everything.

"Stay right here," she said, lifting her head to meet his gaze. She cupped his cheeks and kissed him - too lightly for what he wanted a first anniversary kiss to be, she was sure - and then she wriggled out of his embrace and headed for their bedroom.

He stayed, and she dropped her leather satchel on the foot of the bed, unzipped the pocket. She fished out the little box with two fingers, her heart pounding crazily in her chest. She wanted this to go right.

When she got back to the living room, he had poured her a glass of wine, held it out. She took it, a sip to calm her nerves, still unsure about the ground she walked these days. All her own fault. She found herself calling him at random times just to hear his voice, be sure he hadn't done to her what she'd done to him, or maybe just to prove herself to him again, again, again.

"I - got you something."

"You said no gifts," he frowned. But then his mouth twitched and his frown flipped upside down and he leaned over to the table behind the couch, lifted a box for her. "I ignored you completely."

"Castle," she huffed, but an edge of panic crept into her voice, and they both heard it.

He took the box from her fingers before she could snatch it back as not enough, and he switched it with his own, gifts exchanged. She tightened her fingers around it, swallowing hard, and watched in mute terror as he opened the gift she'd thought was so perfect.

It wasn't perfect. It was stupid. It was ridiculous. He was a grown man and she'd hurt him, never mind the way she'd shredded her own heart to do it, her damn principles and convictions and 'protect and serve'. This was the worst-

"Oh, Kate," he whispered. "This is - perfect."

Her house of cards collapsed and she lifted a tremulous hand. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Castle shook his head, laughed a little. "Um. Open it. You'll see."

She blinked and finally realized she had a similar shaped box in her own hands from him.

Had he-?

She yanked on the bow and flipped open the lid and he had.

He'd gotten her exactly the same thing.

She gave a little desperate laugh, relief coursing through her, and she threw herself at him, holding him tightly.

He grunted but gripped her harder, strong bands around her torso, and his lips dusted her ear. "I was afraid it might be 'Gift of the Magi' but no, you're too smart for that."

From her fingers dangled the extra key to her apartment on a little keychain with the Milky Way and all of _space_ on it. In his own hands was _her_ key to her apartment, on a keychain shaped liked handcuffs. _Together._

 _—–_


	57. severely injured please

**#73 & #127 **(season 8 spoilers)

* * *

severely injured please! don't kill castle

— ANONYMOUS

also this prompt from castlefanficprompts: (for me, I chose not dead, and I also chose it to be his own investigation into her late night rendezvous)

BECAUSE LIFE IS CRUEL THAT WAY, CASTLE IS SEVERELY INJURED OR KILLED (AUTHOR'S CHOICE) WORKING ONE OF HIS OWN CASES AFTER KATE LEAVES.

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

She rode in the ambulance, her hands cradling one of his, her heart jolting every time they hit a pothole or took a corner sharply. His face was bloodless, his eyes closed, but she knew he was conscious.

He just wouldn't look at her.

She swallowed hard when the paramedic forced her back, but her sudden absence caused Castle's eyes to flare wide, seek her out. She ducked around the EMT and caught his pinky, watching as his eyelids slid shut again.

So long as he knew she was here.

Blood welled under the white gauze and soaked through, and the EMT added another layer even as he checked breath sounds and heart rate and monitored Castle's blood pressure. She was allowed back at his side, huddling close to the gurney, gripped his hand in one of hers, reached up to smooth the hair back from his forehead.

She didn't speak, couldn't speak. This was everything she thought she'd been protecting him against, but instead she had only left him in the dark, left to fumble after her, tripping after assassins and stumbling into hit squads.

He could live without a kidney. He could live.

He would live.

God, she hoped he was going to live.

She bowed her head over his hand and gulped back tears, her teeth rattling as the bus hit another pothole and jarred out of it again. She lifted her head to check on him and his eyes were screwed tight, his face lined in anguish.

She turned her head, the interior of the ambulance fiercely bright, her body held in tension with the clatter of bad shocks. The sirens screamed in the darkness, the red wash of light through the front windshield made her guts churn.

"Kate."

She jerked her eyes back to him, despair rising up fast and thick in her throat.

His breath was ragged when it came. He licked his lips and turned his head on the gurney. She hunched closer, bringing his hand into her lap, against her heart, holding herself so tightly together she was going to shatter.

The bus jolted and he gasped, groaned, but his eyes opened on her. "Forgive you," he grunted out. "No matter what."

She buried her face against the back of his hand and cried.

—–

—–

 **#127** (continuation of #73)

* * *

anonymous asked:

I know you just did a continuation of #88 but I've had #73 open in my browser for two weeks so I can reread it a million times, so if you have inspiration/are so inclined, three word prompt: #73, continued. (Please.)

* * *

The stretcher jolted over the weather stripping on the door, was shoved through into the ED. Kate was pushed aside for the attending, a surgeon crowded her out, but she flashed her shield with blood-stained fingers.

Her other hand was being pulled from his.

"Please, Officer, you must let go-"

"Captain," she said, with ice in her voice. Castle groaned.

"Please, Captain, let go so we can take him into-"

"She can follow," the attending said. "But keep your hands off."

Kate pushed Castle's fingers out of her own, but she caught the foot of the stretcher and came through with him into the trauma center.

She was shoved aside again, pushed back, but she surged forward once more, flinched when she watched them cut his clothes off.

She jolted towards him, catching his hand. But his eyes were rolling back, his lips bloodless. "Castle-"

"You need to step back, ma'am." An arm against her. "We can't help him if you're in the way."

Kate stepped back, her fist pressed to her sternum where the scar ached in a phantom, echoing pain.

—–


	58. Beckett's twisted ankle

**#74** (Season 8 timeframe)

* * *

Beckett's twisted ankle

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

"Crutches are killing me," she muttered.

Castle watched her rub under her arm, wincing, and he stopped taking no for an answer. He leaned in and scooped up his wife, knocking aside the crutches so she couldn't use them even if she wanted to.

"Castle," she whined in his ear.

"You're rubbing yourself raw on those crutches," he told her, striding through the open door and into the living room.

"But your knee-"

"It's fine," he gritted out. It wasn't fine, but he could carry his wife to the couch. He lowered her as gently as he could, her leg lifted high to keep her ankle from knocking into the furniture. When she was settled, she laid her hand on his shoulder and he let himself stay there, catching his breath.

"It's not fine," she murmured, leaning in to kiss him. "But thank you. I'll - wrap towels around the tops and hopefully pad it for tomorrow."

"We'll figure something out," he said, patting her knee. "What do you need? Ice cream? Chocolate? Cheese in a can-"

She wrinkled her nose. "What am I - four? No, just get me the pain reliever and some water, and I'll be fine. It doesn't hurt that bad."

"Sure it doesn't. I'll get the ice packs too. Don't go anywhere."

"Oh, ha, ha, you're so funny."

He flashed her a grin as he stood, felt his knee protest and ignored it again. He hurried into the kitchen and grabbed what she needed, piled it all on a tray, came back to her on the couch with an assortment of things.

Kate had fit a decorative pillow under her foot, but he didn't miss the wince on her face or how gingerly she reached for the glass of water on the tray. She took the pain reliever, tossing it back, handed him the glass again, ignoring the rest of the goodies he'd collected for her.

He settled the tray on the coffee table and eased himself onto the narrow space beside her hip. She tried to shift, and he put a hand out to stop her, keep her there.

"No, I'm good. Don't hurt yourself."

"Shut up," she muttered. But she leaned her head against his shoulder and he wriggled back into the couch, going slowly so he wouldn't jostle her foot.

He wrapped his arm around her, combed his fingers through her hair. "I'm just glad you're okay."

"I'm fine, Castle." She patted his knee as if in dismissal, but then she dropped her hand - and the act - and traced circles on his patella. "I'm tired."

"Nap, if you like. I'm a good pillow."

"You are," she murmured, shifting again for a better position.

He lifted his arm until she had settled again, this time with her back to his chest, and he squirmed a little to give them both some room. She dropped her hands on top of his forearm, stroking.

"Thanks, Castle. Be better tomorrow."

"It's fine, fine," he murmured, kissing the top of her head. "You don't have to be anything at all. Just stay right here."

—–

Kate woke, groggy and out of sync, licked her lips and pressed a hand to her head. She groaned when she shifted, forgetting about her ankle, only to open her eyes and catch the morning sunlight on her face.

"Hey, stay right there," a voice came. The mattress bounced as he left, but she obeyed, not moving, not sure she could. Her ankle was killing her.

Her ankle was seriously killing her.

"Castle, can you get me some water?"

"Coming, coming, hold on. Be right there."

A rush of noise and movement, and she burrowed her head into the pillow.

"Ka-ate."

She dragged her eyes open again, sensing a kind of waiting expectancy, and found Castle standing at her side of the bed, a box in his hands.

"I got you something."

"Water?" she said hopefully.

"Uh…" He lifted a finger and settled the box on the bed, reached out and took her empty glass from the night stand. "Hold that thought. Don't open it yet. I gotta explain."

While he was gone, she planted her fists into the mattress and pushed herself up against the head of the bed, trying to keep her foot elevated. She'd had it outside the covers all night and her toes were freezing, but her ankle was burning up.

The box was rather large. She wasn't afraid exactly, but she did wonder.

"Okay, here you go. And pills. Your ankle looks more swollen now than it did yesterday."

She took the water from him, swishing it around in her mouth first, swallowing it to clean out the sock taste. When she turned to him and took the pills, Castle climbed over her and into bed at her side, tapped the box.

"Open it. It's good. Promise."

She downed the pills and the whole glass of water, feeling a little better for it, but she wasn't looking forward to crutching it into work today. Yesterday afternoon on those things had left bruises at her ribs and armpits that still ached.

"What'd you do, Castle?" But she knew she said it only to fulfill some kind of script, that this was what they did. She pulled the floppy white bow on the gift box and removed the lid, peeking inside. "I… don't know what this is."

He chuckled and reached in, removing what looked to be like two stuffed animals. Elephants.

"Um."

"They're armpit pads!"

She groaned, laughing as he stuck his hand into the guts of one of the elephants, wearing it on his fist. "Castle," she said, feeling petulant.

"No, seriously, they work. You fit them on over the crutch pads."

She pressed her lips together and reached for the neglected elephant, fit her own fist into the belly of the beast. It would slide right over the crutch and fit up under her arm.

And yesterday had hurt so much that she just might have to do it. Wear elephants to work on her crutches. Floppy stuffed animals.

Was this what it had come to?

"Or you could just not go," he murmured, leaning in to nuzzle against her cheek. She shivered and caught the side of his face, but he kissed her neck and it was like an electric current. "Stay here with me. We'll both call in sick."

"Castle," she murmured. What was in those pain killers? She was buzzing and lethargic at the same time. The touch of his mouth was like ice, cool and clever and drugging. "Okay, okay, where's my phone?"

He gave a victory whoop and kissed her hard, rattling the bed as he reached past her for her phone. She winced and endured it, took the phone from him.

She owed him.

"This will be so much fun," he crowed. "I'll make breakfast, anything you want. And we can watch Temptation Lane or Nebula 9 on the big tv in the study and I'll carry you around everywhere."

He ran off to get breakfast started, and she cradled her phone in her lap, her chest tight with the ways he loved her. Loved her still.

—–


	59. castle best hugs

**#76** (Season 8 timeframe)

* * *

prompt: castle best hugs :) thank you!

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

Castle jerks awake when the crash comes, a stumbling and a force, and he lifts up on the couch and swipes at the wet spot on his cheek and tries not to look like he was asleep on the sofa in his office.

Again.

But it's not Alexis in his PI office.

Rick surges to his feet, tangled in the blanket he dragged over himself at some point, clumsy with half sleep and the drugged feeling of having gotten only a few hours in a long string of insomniac nights.

Beckett stands stockstill at the threshold of the door and he lets the blanket drop as he comes forward to meet her. She's in another beautiful dress he's never seen before - all these clothes she must be buying just to keep from coming home and raiding the closet - and the ache must show on his face because she turns her face away and closes her eyes, fingers in fists.

"Kate," he tries, rubbing a hand down his face. Tries again, making sure he's more awake now, more in control. "Captain. To what do I owe the-"

He oofs as she barrels into him, but his arms fly around her thin shoulders as she hunches against him, burrowing into his chest. Her embrace is so fierce that it distracts him for a moment, astonished to be in it in the first place.

He's hugging her back, of course, but then he realizes his neck is wet where she's pressed her cheek to his shoulder and tucked her head under his chin.

"Kate?"

She says absolutely nothing, and he turns his wrist to read his watch - only eleven at night - he slept maybe fifteen minutes before she came in - but the movement causes his arms to tighten around her and he's flooded with the sense of how _much_ he misses her against him.

Beside him.

No wonder he can't sleep at home, in the bed that ought to be half tangled with her limbs. Or her hair in his mouth. Or her not-smooth barely-hushed attempts to crawl out with an early morning body drop.

But he doesn't say that, or the five thousand other things crowding his tongue. He keeps silent.

He grips her as hard as her bones can withstand, and buries his face in her hair and memorizes every nuance and texture, every scent and stretch of her body against him. He misses his wife, but he misses _Kate._ It's impossible to find the distinction but it's there, a gradation, a shade of meaning.

All too soon she clears her throat and draws in her arms, his signal to release her. He does out of habit or long-standing practice, he doesn't know why, only that he lets his arms drop and she steps back, her hair in a curtain around her face.

She pushes it back behind an ear, lifts her chin. "You give the best hugs," she says, a short nod as if that accounts for everything. At his cluelessness, she frowns into her clasped hands. He can see her twisting her wedding band around on her finger. She gives it another try. "One of my Narcotics officers was shot. He's out of surgery. He's going to make it."

His breath leaves in a rush. "Who?"

But Beckett - Captain Beckett - is already waving it aside. "Undercover. Can't say. But. Thank you, Castle."

His arms are empty but his heart is full. Cheesy as it sounds, he can barely speak for wanting her. And not just wanting her back, but wanting _good_ for her. Wanting tomorrow to be better than today. Wanting her to find comfort however she can take it.

"My door is always open," he says at last. Because it was - he keeps forgetting to lock the office - but also because he could use a hug himself. From Kate.

She nods and tucks her hair behind her other ear, and now that's both sides, no more stalling tactics, she's done, she's ready to go. She gestures to the open door and gives him that pressed-lips grimace that is her usual smile thwarted, and he follows her to the door and sees her out.

She turns and her brow furrows as she glances at his name on the frosted glass. "Please keep it locked, though." Her eyes come to meet his, and seemingly without her volition, her hand touches lightly at his chest. "It's important you're safe."

Once more, he's too astonished to find words to reply, and she slips out and down the stairs before he can even begin.

But he shuts the door after her and flips the lock, like she asked.

He'll never forget again.

—–


	60. Beckett loft night

**#77**

* * *

Prompt: Beckett loft night :)

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

The windows are difficult.

She figures there must be a trick to it, but she's never needed to do it alone, never thought to ask.

She stands before the office window and presses two fingers to the glass, staring out across the not-dark horizon. The building directly across the street has almost every light blazing, but their own loft is black as night.

Rick is gone. The room is so empty.

It's cool outside, and the loft is overly warm, and she longs for fresh air. She could adjust the thermostat and go back to bed, but he's usually there, his body heat building between the sheets while his windows are cracked to let in the night and keep them cool.

She usually wakes at some point to a car horn or an alarm and feels the kiss of air across her face and his lips at her nape, a strangely arousing sensation.

She sighs and tilts her forehead to the window, closing her eyes.

Everyone is gone. The whole loft is empty.

This is ridiculous.

Why is she mourning the lack of night air and the closed windows? Why is she letting insomnia make her morose?

Kate straightens up and pushes away from the office window, swipes her phone from the wireless charging station on his desk. She ignores the time and makes the call.

It takes forever, the phone ringing on and on as she paces back to their bedroom. The sky is faintly pink where the city lights glow in the darkness, and she sinks down on the bed, hoping he really did keep his phone right by the bed like he said he-

"Kate?" Her name is blurred in his mouth. "Gotta be kidding me, honey."

She sighs and slumps all the way down to the mattress and closes her eyes. "I miss you."

"Kinda ridiculous, Kate," he grumbles.

"Don't make fun of me," she mumbles. "My baby is gone."

He sighs, but he doesn't say anything more. She pulls her knees up and slides in under the covers again. She should've turned on the air conditioner.

"We'll be back in two more days, Kate."

"I know."

"You've lasted nine days."

"I _know_ ," she moans.

"Wasn't _I_ the melodramatic one?"

She sighs and tries to suppress a whine, but it does no good.

"You haven't slept," he guesses correctly. "How many nights in a row?"

"Four," she admits.

"Not good for the baby. The actual baby."

"I'm not doing it on purpose," she mutters, but she presses her hand against her stomach and makes slow circles. "Pregnancy does it to me."

"Yeah," he sighs over the line. "Last time was a bitch."

"He better not be sleeping in the room with you."

"He is, but he's _asleep_. I can curse all I want. Besides, you're one to talk."

She tsks at him but her lips are quirking up despite herself. "Has he had fun?"

"We called you tonight before bed," he reminds her softly.

She turns her head into the pillow, strokes slowly at the rise of her stomach. Pretending he's there too, saying nothing.

Castle sighs, gives it up. "Yeah, he's had a blast. Your dad has taken him out on the boat every day, caught a ton of catfish."

"You go with them?"

"Nah, I've been working on the book."

"Supposed to be a male bonding thing," she reminds him. Point of the whole trip, of leaving her behind in the city. Well, to clear her desk so she can take off. She didn't do it with the first one, wishes now she had, but at least they'll have this time now. As a family of three before they're four.

"They're bonding," he chuckles. "And then he gets back sun-dazed and worn out from fishing and he sits with me on the porch and falls asleep in my lap."

"Oh," she cries out. "I should have-"

"No, no," he soothes her. "You're doing the right thing. Now that you're showing, stay home with us until your maternity leave is up. It was a smart idea, Kate."

"But it'll be something like five months, all told," she murmurs. Wishing she's there and not here even though she needed this time to get her open cases reassigned.

"And you'll have five months to hold both your boys while they fall asleep in your arms."

Kate takes a ragged breath and closes her eyes. "At least someone will be sleeping."

"Want a story?" he mumbles.

"I woke you," she tries to apologize.

"You did. Want a story? Might not help you sleep, but-"

"But I miss you too," she admits.

"Miss you. Both," he amends.

"Not a boy this time."

"Insomnia both times," he counters.

"Not a boy."

"You don't know that." He sounds exhausted. She should let him go. Their son will have him up early, as usual, and even writing on her father's front porch every morning doesn't mean he's having an easy time of it wrestling their firstborn with only her dad for help.

"Kate?"

"I'll tell you a story instead," she whispers.

"Better not be naughty. I have your son in bed with me."

She laughs, startled by it, hearing how her relief cracks her voice.

"You really are tired," he says softly. "I'm sorry, honey."

"Worth it," she tells him. "It's worth it."

"I love you, Kate."

"Love you too. Love you both." She takes a little laughing, surprised breath, smiles into the dark room. "Love you _all_."

He laughs back. "That's right. You've got one, I've got the other. Even."

They're even.

She curves her hand at her stomach and closes her eyes. "Thank you, Rick. Go back to sleep. I'm good now."

"Sure?"

"Mm-hm. Sleep, babe."

"Night. Call you in the morning?"

"No," she says, a promise in it. "No, I'm fine now. We're fine."

Not empty, not alone. She holds their family under her skin, in her heart, just as he does.

Maybe she'll sleep now.

—–


	61. Do it again

**#78**

* * *

Three word prompts: Do it again

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

"Do it again."

He smirks, a brief lift of his eyes to connect with hers, and then they both watch as the dog's hind leg moves when Castle scratches just above his tail. The paw hits the wood floor and his nails scratch, and the dog licks all over Kate's fingers, whining low in his throat.

"He's adorable," she sighs. "Entirely too adorable. But Castle-"

"Isn't he though? I told you."

"But he's huge. And cooped up in the loft all day-"

"I'll be here. Alexis will help. He's already comfortable here."

"He's broken a lamp and that little sculpture in our bedroom. He's not comfortable so much as lacking in spatial awareness."

"What are things compared to his face?" Castle cups the dog's head and tilts down, mournful puppy eyes to mournful puppy eyes. He glances back up at her, and she cannot say no to that - the combined force of their pitifulness is too much for her.

Kate reaches out and strokes two fingers down the dog's head, some kind of German Shepherd and black lab mix, dark hair with a patch of brown down his back and white socks on three of his paws. Huge. He's a massive dog, as big as a wolfhound, and just the sight of his long limbs and angular ears catches her heart.

There's something about him that makes her think of winter woods and loneliness. She can't say no.

"I can't believe they just gave you a dog."

"I filled out paperwork. They were going to euthanize him."

"They were?" she cries out.

Castle sighs. "No. But - it just felt like they were. Those cages. It was depressing in there, Beckett."

"You took him to the vet?"

"Yeah, heart worm meds, flea dip. He - uh - was kinda lousy with fleas."

She draws her hand back.

"But they're gone now. Vet took care of it. And look, flea collar and well, I already bought his tags and a leather-"

"Castle," she sighs. But there's no heat in it. There's just this big beautiful dog on their living room floor, basking in their attention, whining and licking their hands for more. "What's his name?"

"Seiko."

The dog picks up his head and gives a low woof, deep and throaty, and then licks Castle's chin and neck. Castle laughs and rubs down the dog's fur, a rough handling that the beast shivers into, crowding closer. His leg starts up again, thumping the floor as Castle gives him love.

"Seiko," she mutters.

"Like the watch. He's our watchdog."

Kate rolls her eyes but-

"I guess we have a dog," she says quietly. She can't say no. She just - can't say no to him.

Either of them.

—–


	62. netflix and chill

**#79** (lol, I went an entirely different direction from the prompt, sorry)

* * *

netflix and chill...

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

She's not crying.

He pretends to believe it.

"I made hot chocolate. Put a little extra in it." He lifts two mugs and both eyebrows and she smiles tightly back at him, winds her way through living room furniture to take one.

Castle knows how to play it. She appreciates that, the chance to not talk about it. His hot chocolate is spiced with rum and it goes down so smoothly that she feels her body relax despite herself.

"Easy night in," he tells her quietly. He's cupping her elbow as if to help her hold up her mug. "That's all."

She nods and turns away, heads for the couch to sink into one corner. She draws her knees up and presses the mug to her chest for the heat. Her limbs are stiff.

Castle brings his own mug and a big bowl of trail mix, settles them on the coffee table before her. He's put in a random selection of ingredients, so she picks out the M&Ms and raisins, popping them into her mouth, ignores the Lucky Charms marshmallows ( _where_ did he get those?) and the Funyuns. She leans back and sips hot chocolate for the rum that burns, and she tilts her head to rest against the back of the couch.

Castle comes back with his laptop and a big furry blanket she's never seen before. He sits on the other end of the couch and puts the laptop - open - on the table behind the couch, angling it towards him.

"Come here," he says, no room for arguments.

She curls her hand around her mug but she slinks towards him, laying her head at his shoulder. Castle takes her hot chocolate and places it beside his own next to the laptop, and then he unfolds the blanket over both of them.

Warm and heavy. Like a big teddy bear.

He tucks the edges around her shoulders and she nudges down into his shoulder, her ass hanging off the couch. She twines a leg around his to hang on, and he shifts deeper into the couch in response, getting them both comfortable.

He uses the arm not around her shoulders to reach for the laptop, adjusting it again, and then he opens the browser and types _n_ into the search bar. Netflix automatically fills in and then the page loads to his account.

"What are we watching?" she asks finally. Her cheek is smashed against his shoulder, her forehead to his neck. She can feel the vibration of his voice as he answers.

"Arrested Development. All four seasons."

She huffs, but her eyes track to the description before he can click on it. _Quirky, irreverent, witty, deadpan._

Sounds about right. She could use some irreverence. Castle, though, usually has witty covered, while she does deadpan. Quirky is just - them. Together.

"Ready?" he asks.

"Bring it on."

The first season loads, and then the first episode. He makes it full screen as the _quirky_ music starts, the voice over and the boat party and the comedy bits she knows so well. All of it.

Castle's fingers comb through her hair, the rum is doing its job. Her eyes are heavy and she just listens for a moment, listens to a family entirely dysfunctional, the bubble of amusement in her chest despite the heaviness of her heart.

After a while, Kate sighs and feels things slip, shift, as if the burden has been redistributed.

She lifts her head and lightly kisses his mouth. "You're much better looking than Bateman. Promise." Strokes two fingers at his throat. "And so good to me. Better than I deserve."

—–


	63. I'm not done

**#80**

* * *

Three words prompt: I'm not done. Thank you :)

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

"Castle," she whines. "I'm not done."

But he doesn't stop, his hands sure and strong, whisking her son away and cuddling him against his chest. His lips are already dusting the top of the newborn's head.

"I'm wasn't done holding him," she mutters.

"You've had him for hours," Castle whispers, smiling down at the baby. "And he'll wake to be fed soon and it will start all over again."

It's hard to be mad with the sight they make. Father and son. How small he is, how broad Castle's chest. How the baby curls, compact and snug, beneath the width of Castle's hand.

"Sit with me," she murmurs, still stunned with exhaustion. Every two hours and then the nurses all night checking vitals means she got about thirty minutes of sleep between listening for the baby and jumping at the least little sound.

She used to think she was no stranger to sleep deprivation. This is another level.

"Gonna have to shift your hips," Castle tells her, nudging with an elbow to prompt her to move.

She tries, she really does, but it's like her limbs are wet noodles, sapped of strength. She winds up listing to one side while Castle shoves with his own hips, getting into the cramped space with her.

"Much better," she sighs, immediately melting into his side, chin on his shoulder. Castle isn't exactly able to fit; she's mostly behind him . But it feels good to lean into him, feels good to close her eyes and know the baby is just fine with his daddy.

Everything's just fine.

She's nearly asleep when Castle's head turns and his lips brush hers. "Yeah, you were done, Kate. So done. Sleep while you can. I'll wake you when he's hungry."

—–


	64. You lied Again

**#81** (season 8 spoilers, projected resolution)

* * *

Three-word prompt: You lied. Again.

— ALIFEOFRANDOMNESS

* * *

"You lied." His jaw flexes. "Again."

"No." A fast shake of her head and she resists the temptation to reach for him. She won't reach for him, touch him, seduce him. That's not playing fair. "I never lied. I needed time to figure it out, to solve-"

"You didn't say you were leaving me to solve a damn case, Kate." He growls and paces away from her, swings back to jab his finger her direction. "We agreed. No more secrets. We _said_ we'd keep each other in the loop after that thing with Vikram."

"How is _lying_ the same as keeping a secret?" she hisses. "Don't even start, Castle. You kept secrets from me plenty. You _do_ keep secrets. There's nothing wrong with secrets."

"Except this," he says, gesturing violently to the room.

Where they're trapped. Where they might die.

"This wouldn't have happened if you had given me space. Like I asked. I was keeping you out of it, Castle."

He rounds on her, advancing so suddenly she actually flinches, though she won't step back. He grips her shoulders, face like thunder. "I don't want to be kept out of it. I _chose_ this. I chose you - knowing full well what that means for my life, for our life, what that looks like. Don't belittle my commitment to you-"

"That's not what I was doing," she insists. "If you hadn't followed me, they wouldn't have followed _you_. The whole _point_ was to keep you safe. But you couldn't leave it alone."

"When have I ever?" he scoffs. A harsh shake of her shoulders. "When would I _ever_ leave you alone to this?"

"Why can't you just do what I ask?"

"I don't stay in the damn car, Kate. If you thought marriage would change that-"

She launches herself at him, mouths colliding, bodies crashing, and he groans into her assault, his teeth clashing with hers. Urgent, desperate, his hand fists in her hair and her nails dig into his biceps. Hips press. His groan is too loud, her blood is burning her up inside.

He puts her away with his grip on her hair, his other hand wrapped at her chin and throat. "Stop, stop," he forces out.

She wants him. So badly. Has since she left. Wanted him. If he wasn't holding her back, she'd be on him again-

"We have to get out of here," he says. His voice is like gravel, dark. Dangerous. She's only seem him this far into the darkness a handful of times. Searching for his daughter when she was kidnapped-

"We have to get out of here," she says slowly, trying to find her equilibrium again. It's impossible with him; she'll never be on solid ground when he's around her. He makes her want things she keeps trying to give up.

"Kate."

"Yes," she nods, hands in fists to keep from reaching for him. Not fair. It's not right to seduce him even if she's the one being seduced. "Yes, we need to get out of here first."

Castle snarls something dark and grabs her again, reels her in, taking her mouth in a kiss that makes her surge into him. Joyous. It fills her heart like a flood, overflowing, and she clings to his shoulders, the back of his head, desperate to drown.

He bites her bottom lip until she cries out. He licks the welling of blood. "No more lies. Leave the secrets for Christmas presents and April Fool's. You hear me, Kate?"

"Yes," she agrees, "yes, yes." She jumps in for another kiss, cupping his ears, and his growl rolls over into a purr, a whine of need, an equal desperate want. All his fire and determination for show, bravado, though his clutch is still painful.

And then a door clangs somewhere in the bowels of their prison and they both jump apart, breathless and messy and disoriented, and reality crashes in on them.

"We have to get out of here," she croaks, flying to the bars on the basement window and tugging. "Castle. We have to get out of here."

He crowds at her back, places his hands on the bars to either side of hers, and without words, they count to three and pull.

It might actually be moving.

They might not die here.

—–


	65. He touches things

**#83** (season 8)

* * *

Three word prompt: He touches things.

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

Kate presses her foot to the mattress to keep her balance, then leans over and works the tights up her leg.

She squawks in surprise when he gooses her, jolting upright and swinging back to slap at him even as she does. But she loses her balance and he has to catch her, chuckling as he stands there, forearms flexing.

"You always have to touch things?" she mutters, swatting at him again.

"You know I do. And leaving something that tempting just hanging out-"

"My ass was _not_ hanging out," she says, narrowing her eyes at him. She draws up her black tights and puts her foot on the floor, wriggling her hips to get them straight.

Castle just watches.

"Enjoying the show?"

"Most definitely." That look comes over his face and he steps into her, hands coming out and rucking up her skirt.

"Castle," she warns.

His fingers tuck into the waistband of her tights, rub against the skin under he belly button.

"Cas-castle," she hisses. "Look don't touch."

"That's impossible for me." His mouth dusts her temple and hovers near her half-closed eye. "You know it is. Why do you tease?"

Her blood is thundering through her veins. "I just got these tights _on_. You're not taking them off."

"Halfway down isn't off," he compromises.

Her groan is both frustration and acceptance, but _she's_ the one who takes her tights off.

"Not the skirt," she says, slapping at his hands. "Skirt can stay. And hurry. I have a meeting."

"Bossy Captain," he grumbles, nipping at her ear as his fingers hook in her panties. "I thoroughly approve."

—–


	66. Oh f no

**#84** (season 8 spoilers)

* * *

"Oh fuck, no!"

— ANONYMOUS

*a warning - I wound up taking this prompt to mean, oh fuck no, this is not what I want happening on my show*

* * *

Castle drops the bags to the floor and kicks the door shut behind him, wincing as it slams shut. The groceries spill out across the hardwood, and he groans and crouches down to collect them back into the bag.

And of course, the knob rattles and the door swings open, smacks him in the ass. He grunts and falls to one elbow before he can find his balance.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry." Kate rushes inside, catching him by the arm, trying to help him. But she laughs a little and he finds it in himself to chuckle as well, getting to his feet with the groceries. "I thought you were way ahead of me."

He shakes his head. "Not a problem. I took my time, obviously, should've been a little faster."

"No," she murmurs, her eyes meeting his and then sliding away. "You shouldn't have to…"

"What?" he says, the bags heavy in his hands, weighing him down. "Shouldn't have to what? Be so careful around you? Neither should you, Kate."

She opens her mouth but nothing comes out, and he just shakes his head and pushes past her into the kitchen. His kitchen, their kitchen, he doesn't even know what to call it anymore. What do you call a place someone can slide in and out of so easily? Like she was never there.

"Rick-"

"I bought ingredients for lasagna," he says, talking over her. "It means some prep work, but-"

"Do you not want me here?"

The bags drop heavily to the counter as he swings his head to look at her. "Do you not - want to come home?"

"Of course, I do," she whispers.

"I'm just… _of course_ isn't really in our vocabulary any longer. Of course is taking things for granted that I never thought…" He scrapes a hand down his face. "I just want you back."

"I'm back," she says, jerking forward. "I'm back. I'm not-"

He doesn't mean to flinch when she touches him, doesn't mean to make her go still and quiet and sad.

But there's a lot…

"It's just a lot." He clears his throat and glances to the groceries, doesn't really see them. "No explanation, no reason-"

"I can't tell you, Castle."

"Yeah, yeah," he says, waving her off. "National security." He nods his head, hates himself in this moment. Why can't he just stick his head in the sand and be glad she's back, be _grateful_?

"But it's over," she says quietly. Steel in her voice. Certainty. That same look in her eyes after she arrested Bracken. "It's over."

"Is it?" he sighs. "How am I supposed to trust that? I don't even know what happened, I don't even know _why_."

She catches his hand before he can scrub it down his face again, cradles his knuckles between her own. "We just keep going. Isn't that what you told me when you came back? We got married, we kept going forward."

His guts twist. That summer always keeps coming back to haunt him, knocks him flat all over again. He has no leg to stand on. "Just like that," he says roughly, not looking at her. "And I just - what - hope that whatever it was doesn't happen again? Hope that next time I'm enough for you?"

"Oh, God-"

"No, I know. That's not fair." He tries to draw his hand out of her grasp, but he can't actually do it. Can't actually stop needing the soothing touch of her fingers.

She closes her eyes, opens them again. "No, I… deserve that. I do. I hurt you. And I will - do anything to earn your forgiveness. I-"

"Then it's not love," he mutters. "If you have to earn it, it's not love."

Her eyes lift to his. Her lips have gone bloodless.

"That's not what I meant. Not us. I meant-" He snatches his hand back and rubs both briskly down his face, growling. "I love you. And you're already forgiven. How it works."

The color slowly comes back into her face. He tries not to let that hurt so much, how easy it is to hurt her, how bad it feels to hurt her.

"Okay," she says carefully. "But you… don't trust me anymore."

He can't refute it. He doesn't know how else to explain the lingering dread he feels. At any moment, she could just - walk away from him.

He could never walk away. But she can.

"I don't know what I feel," he says finally, throat working to keep his voice even. Steady. But it feels like it's breaking anyway. "I just want to have dinner and go to bed." He struggles for words. "With my wife."

She doesn't try to touch him this time, doesn't catch his hand or cup his face or any of the thousand tiny painful deaths she gave him over the last few months, touching him like she loved him still.

But she does love him still.

She's here, isn't she?

He just… doesn't know how to _trust_ it.

"Am I… still your wife?" she whispers.

He presses both hands into his eyes and breathes hard through the tightness in his throat.

Drops his hands. "I don't know. I wish you'd let _me_ know," he chokes out. "I wish to God I knew how to keep you."

Tears spill over her eyes and down her cheeks, but he thinks he started it. He swipes his hand at his cheeks and rumbles in his chest, trying to clear it out, but it's no use.

It's no use.

"Castle. I don't know if - if I can be kept."

—–


	67. It's a disaster

**#86** (season 8 spoilers)

* * *

It's a disaster

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

Kate surveys the ruined remains of the apple pie, struggling not to give in to defeat.

Okay. So the filling has run over the sides of the pie pan and blackened, apparently too runny, while the crust has fallen in and sunk to the bottom, big chunks of flaky black swimming in the filling.

Maybe defeat is the way to go.

She ducks her head and checks on the pumpkin still cooking in the oven, gasps when she sees the smoke curling from the top. Kate yanks open the oven door and grabs for whatever thing is near at hand, reaches inside to pull out the pie.

"Fuck!"

Heat sears her fingers and the pie plate drops to the open oven door, shattering into pieces, clattering so loudly that it brings Castle out of his office.

"Whoa, whoa, everything okay in here?"

Sticking her fingers in her mouth and dancing back from the oven door, she realizes she picked up one of the dishcloths Alexis knitted back in middle school, gaping holes in her stitches.

"Uh, okay," Castle says slowly, taking a good look at his kitchen. "Well. We can fix this-"

"You're supposed to be writing," she mumbles around her fingers.

He reaches for her, hand around her forearm to tug her towards him. She goes, stumbling, resisting only a little as Castle turns on the faucet. He draws her hand to the water and she yelps when the cold touches her burned fingertips, pulsing heat and pain up through her arm.

"Stop fidgeting," he says, his voice right in her ear. His chest to her back. His hand cradles hers, his thumb keeping her fingers spread and in the water's flow.

She shifts on her feet anyway, turns her face into his shoulder. It really hurts. It kinda takes her breath away.

"Hush," he murmurs. "The woman who stitched up her own gunshot wound can't stand a little heat?"

"Shut up," she grumbles, digging her forehead hard into his shoulder. "I think I broke the pie plate."

"Don't worry about it."

"Both pies are completely ruined."

She can feel him turning to look and she lifts her head, surveys the mess she's made of the kitchen. Empty cans, flour over half the counter, bits of dough she pinched off, dirty mixing bowls, crunchy sugar spilled on the floor.

"I'm gonna clean it up," she promises. And as she sees the collapsed apple pie and then the pumpkin mixed with broken pieces of ceramic, she groans. "It's a disaster. Everything is ruined."

"No," he says firmly. "Everything is not. And who has pumpkin for Christmas anyway?"

She chews on her bottom lip, her fingers throbbing. "Making up for Thanksgiving," she says tightly. Or trying to. "Epic fail."

He laughs, and it startles her, makes her turn her head back to him. She's surprised again by the hot kiss he presses against her mouth, the groan it drags up out of her.

Her wet hand comes up automatically to cup his face and she grunts, jerking her arm into her chest. Castle brushes a line under her eye with his thumb, shaking his head. "Flour all over you."

"There's time to make another-"

"We'll do it together," he says. The way he looks at her still clenches her heart, floods her with guilt every time. How grateful he is to have her back. "But let's make chocolate instead."

"You said you had to write-"

"I only meant you were inspiring, Kate. Let's bake a pie for Christmas Eve dinner instead. Besides, you're walking wounded. You're going to need help."

 _let me help you_

This time, she gives him a short nod. "Okay. Chocolate?"

"Chocolate."

She's learned her lesson.

—–


	68. Don't do that

**#87**

* * *

"Don't do that!"

— SWALLOWEDTONGUES

* * *

"Don't do that!" Kate springs to her feet only to have Castle laugh and yank her back down. She lets herself fall into his lap in the chair, awkward limbs and hard bones, his arm around her waist as the movie plays on.

And of course, the girl hides rather than run, hides in a stupid hiding place that only muffles her senses and hamstrings her ability to escape the killer.

"She's gonna die," Kate mutters.

"You don't know that. This one might surp-"

Nope, there she goes. Right into the killer's arms - or knife, actually. It's a spectacular lot of blood, and Kate sighs, leaning back against Castle with a disapproving frown.

"Okay, so you don't like this movie. What would you rather watch?"

"No, this is fine," she says.

The screen goes black and she jerks upright, glances at Castle. He's turned it off with the remote, a smirk on his face, eyebrow raised. "Pick something else. Something better. I don't like it either - writing is a little poor."

She narrows her eyes at him, but she gets up and heads for his blu-ray collection, bending over to search through the titles. She glances back once but he's markedly appreciating her ass, so she wriggles a little and lets him have it.

When she finds one she likes, she gets up and moves to the player without showing him the title, swapping the discs while he grumbles at her.

She comes back to him and folds herself back into his captain's chair, digging her ass into his thigh bone so he feels what he was ogling. He yelps and clutches her waist, but she nods to the remote.

"Start it up, Captain."

He grunts, slanting an eye her way, but he presses play on the remote and then has to skim forward through the previews and commercials.

He barks a laugh when the title page plays its raucous music, the forms melding and rotating. "You're kidding."

"I like it," she says, flicking his ear.

"Austin Powers."

"Yes." She wriggles her ass a little harder into him and he grunts again, wraps his arm around her waist to still her.

"Fine, okay, okay. Austin Powers it is." He chuckles and his chin knocks into her cheek. "Better writing for sure."

Kate turns and brushes her mouth at the ear she abused, soft. "Not as good as yours."

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

"Not what you said this morning in the shower."

—–


	69. Rick car accident

**#88** (season 8 spoilers)  & **#94**

* * *

Rick car accident

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

As part of her new awareness of the very great scope of her captain's duties, Beckett leaves the police scanner on low near her desk while she signs off on vacation requests, administrative aides, and parking complaints. The bureaucracy of a job that eats large holes in the actual good work in the field she used to do as a detective.

She's not complaining; she's just having to reorganize her workflow.

And her secrets. It's much harder to meet up with Vikram when she's required to be at a budget meeting every other Tuesday, CompStat presentations at 1PP every Friday, and heads of departments staff meeting for the Twelfth once a month.

But she's managing. Hanging on by her fingernails, but she's doing it.

The police scanner is mostly white noise these days. She pretends it keeps her connected.

But today. This day, a late evening alone in the bullpen on a Monday, the police scanner is a surreal monster coming to life from one of her nightmares.

A hit and run. A pedestrian being tended to on scene. A BOLO for the vehicle, whom eyewits say maybe dark navy, maybe a Chevy Crossover, maybe a Ford… and her heart squeezes.

And then her phone is vibrating like mad across her desktop while - almost simultaneously - her desk phone burrs in the golden glow of the lamp.

Her heart leaps in her throat but she answers her cell, already noting two texts coming in and dulling the voice on the other end.

It's Rick. He's the hit and run.

This is her fault.

—–

The Chevy Traverse was found abandoned, reported stolen merely two hours later by a family returning home form a long weekend train trip. Traffic cams get no clear image of the driver, just an outline of darkness behind tinted windows.

She slides into his hospital room after visiting hours, unashamed to flash the shield and receive preferential treatment, only somewhat ashamed that she's avoiding his mother and daughter.

She sits in a chair close to his elevated bed, her elbows on the mattress and head buried in her hands, trying to slow her heart rate and swallow back the urge to be sick.

Deep breaths and the gun at her hip are her only coping mechanisms. Deep breaths and a prayer on repeat that isn't even in words, just soundless fear pushed out into a vacuum.

He might wake up. He might never wake up.

Keeping her distance has done nothing but ensure his last few months were lonely and bewildering and sad. Rather than keep him safe, she's only kept him ignorant.

She might have killed him.

He might not recover from this.

And neither will she.

* * *

#94

* * *

#88 reunion scene?

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

"Feel bad."

Kate jerks her head up and falls forward into the hospital bed, so startled is she to hear words. "Rick?"

His mouth works. A long sigh that sounds painful. "Bad."

"Hey, babe, it's okay," she says quietly, rising to her feet. Her hands are shaking. "You're in the hospital."

His eyes open. Blink. "Oh."

"Rick?"

A long moment where he seems not to hear her - and it's a miracle he's speaking at all, after his shattered jaw was wired shut for five weeks and the induced coma for swelling on the brain and-

"Oh, it's you," he slurs, lashes fluttering.

"Rick," she sighs, sinking a hip against the mattress, her heart sinking. They warned her he would be in and out mentally, that he would seem to wake but he wouldn't remember or comprehend. "Yeah, it's me."

She cradles his hand between her own, the one not in a cast, stroking the swollen flesh around his fingers.

"Kate," he breathes out. "Finally."

Her eyes stutter back up to his face, and he's watching her. Fixed on her. "Rick?"

"Stay."

"Haven't left," she promises. Six weeks. She hasn't moved. She's done. It's done. She's not going anywhere. "Won't. You rest."

"Mm," lashes fluttering again. "Think so."

And then he's dropped right back under again.

But her hope has feathers.

—–


	70. Beckett loses voice

**#89 (T rated) & #131 (M rated)**

* * *

Beckett loses voice ;)

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

For the third day in a row, her voice came out in a dark rasp, the edges of words breaking and falling into nothing. He couldn't help how it affected him, quieted him, her reservation catching. He didn't even need to be here, really, paperwork and a meeting with prosecution about a case she'd have to testify for next week.

But in certain situations, he was acting as her voice.

Now that the bullpen had quieted, he sneaked out to the break room and started the espresso machine. He got the pull exactly right, which pleased him, and just as he turned around, there was Kate standing silently in the doorway.

She gave him a little toss of her head, and he handed over her coffee as she stepped forward.

"Last one of the day," she croaked. Half the volume of usual. Half the words missing.

He nodded, her muteness his own.

"Castle," she scratched out, wrinkling her brow at him.

He got her meaning and he let out a little breath of amusement. "No, yeah, you're right. It's just strange how not having your voice to-" He shrugged. The words weren't there.

First time for everything.

She took a sip of her coffee and closed her eyes, lips curling up at the rim. His chest tightened - something about Kate mute, Kate without a voice, that made him want to shield her. A woman who didn't have any trouble standing up for herself, suddenly unable to rely on her voice.

She took another sip, cleared her throat, but it didn't seem to help. He sighed and leaned back against the counter, studying her.

"Stop," she croaked, cup cradled against her chest.

He huffed. "Can't help it. Want this to be over with already. I don't like not hearing you."

Her smile bloomed and she made that graceful step into him, touched her lips to the corner of his mouth. She settled beside him at the counter, hips bumping, and sipped her espresso slowly, taking her time.

Silent.

"Talk," she said then. He felt it more than heard it, glanced at her to see her frowning seriously at him.

She didn't like not hearing him as much as he didn't like not hearing her.

"Talk about what? You can't answer back. Should save your voice for them." He gestured to the bullpen outside the break room door, and she scowled.

"Story." Her voice cracked and broke, and then she tried again, but there was absolutely nothing. Not even a croak. Her eyes widened, almost comically, and he tried not to laugh, but she slapped his chest for it.

"Okay, okay. I'll tell you a story. A dirty story?"

Kate opened her mouth, but all she could do was shake her head violently.

"What?" he said, finger to his ear. Pretending he couldn't see her protest. "I think that must be a yes. Once upon a time, there was a lonely but beautiful detective. She was a badass by day, but alone at night. When she went to bed, she would often touch her-"

Kate yanked his ear and he yelped, coffee sloshing between them. He turned to look at her and she was giving him a baleful look, but she couldn't say anything, could she?

He turned on her, taking the half-empty cup from her fingers and putting it in the sink behind her. She raised a slim eyebrow, but he caught her hips in his hands, pressed in against her not so subtly.

"Let me take you home, Kate." He dipped his head and touched a kiss to her mute lips. "I'll finish the rest of the story."

Her heard her breath catch and then felt her head nod against him.

Emphatically.

—–

* * *

 **#131** (continuation of 89 - Beckett loses her voice) M rated

* * *

Eighty nine continued :)

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

Her spine arched in silent ecstasy, eyes wide.

He shifted up her body and came down on top of her, wanting to be invited in, wanting _in_ on all this gorgeous intensity that burned so bright in their bed.

But she was silent.

When trapped her hands over her head, her eyes jerked down to meet his, but still nothing came out of her mouth. No words, no encouragement, no tease, no _sharing_.

He wasn't used to silence from Kate Beckett. It was like she was taking - taking everything from him and building some intense pleasure - all in privacy. All on her own.

It made him furious, darkly, dangerously angry with her, and he had thought the anger was gone.

He had thought he had forgiven her.

Maybe not.

He breathed hard into her mouth and lashed her wrists above her head, holding them there with one hand. When she bucked against his touch, he pinned her with his hips and dragged open her thigh.

And then she cried out.

No voice, no _words_ , but just that broken noise, that desperation that made him so deeply satisfied.

Now he had her.

She was his.

—–


	71. Beckett misses Castle

**#90**

* * *

Three word prompt: Beckett misses Castle..

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

She was out of sorts in the loft alone. She spent too much time at the precinct running down nonexistent leads and guzzling bad coffee, and then she went home to the loft and laid awake in the bed, restless.

Nothing to take edge off, though she'd tried - and failed.

He called and they talked and it was good, it put her under at night or it pulled her up during the day, but it wasn't that she needed his fingers or his body at her side. She liked having those things, but need wasn't the issue.

It was _want_.

Her best friend, her partner. She wanted. She didn't like the emptiness or the seclusion. She didn't mind his daughter, found his mother endearing, but even their impression on the loft didn't negate the not having him.

Sunday afternoon she trailed her fingers over the books on his office shelves, but she had read them all and none of them offered her the thing she was missing. She wanted his _voice_ and while Nikki Heat and Derrick Storm were close, they weren't the same. They weren't him. They were phantoms of him.

She brought the iPad to bed with her, thinking she might find the ebook versions refreshing, new, that having a different visual for those pages would shake her enough to hear him all over again, just as she did when she went to his readings.

She was scrolling through the ebook listings when she found the headphone symbol, the little indicator of the audio book offering. She clicked on it, saw it was for one of his early books, very early, one of those her mother had bought when she was in high school.

And it was read by the author.

She bought it before she knew what she was doing, the download to her iPad ratcheting up her heart rate.

She squirmed down in their bed and pulled the covers up, found her ear buds in the bedside drawer. She plugged it into the headphone jack and touched the audio app, holding her breath. Waiting.

His voice poured rich and familiar over the ear buds, directly into her heart. She closed her eyes to better hear the nuances of his tone, his inflection, smiling when she could hear how young he was, the places where he was inexperienced.

But still him. Still Castle.

Her husband.

—–


	72. carry your heart

#92 (most likely set during Always)

* * *

3 words: carry your heart

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

His mouth touches the flare of her hip, coasts inward to the rise of her spine. She shifts under his worship as if she might move, ruin his perfect view, so he presses his palm to the back of her thigh, keeping her on her stomach on the mattress.

She sighs and turns her head to look at him. Sleepy, sweet. "What're you doing?"

"I just realized," he murmurs, dipping his head to kiss the curve of her coccyx. "What this is."

"What," she whispers.

Castle returns his eyes to the dark ink on her lower back, just at the swell of her hip, as if to circle her waist. The tattoo isn't from her wild child days, like he once fantasized.

No. He thought it fancy script, a calligraphy of graphic design.

But it's not that.

He once thought that she buries her heart under all these layers, but he forgot how the layers themselves could be pieces of her heart, how the armor plates were fashioned from those gut-wrenching tragedies.

Her armor _is_ her heart, and here it is, carried around with her in the lines and curves of a cursive tattoo. The ink has faded to that dark grey of a night-storm that won't break, the power suffocated by the sky.

He presses a finger at the start, traces the words as if to ink them into his own heart: _in truth, freedom_

He's seen the calendar, the date books, the little notes crabbed into formerly blank days. He pored over those hastily written constructs for hours with her, strangely feeling like he could know the woman through her hieroglyphs.

"It's your mother's handwriting," he says roughly, sliding his finger to the end. The last loop of the 'm' fades into a line. _Freedom_. A mother's promise.

Kate closes her eyes.

It's her mother's handwriting tattooed on her body.

—–


	73. pray with me

#95 (season eight)

* * *

three word prompt: pray with me

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

Captain Beckett nods tersely to her husband as he approaches on the sidewalk, but she doesn't turn to him. She stays facing her witness, her hands clasped before her, attentive.

"And then what happened?" she encourages.

The witness is a forty-year old woman with bleary eyes, still in her plaid pajama pants, no robe, shivering in the cool pre-dawn air. A cross necklace glints gold at her throat, and she keeps fiddling with it. "And then - well - the fire department came, trucks pulled up. It never occurred to me that it wasn't a false alarm. The alarm goes off in this building all the time, faulty wiring. We just - just stay inside." She blinks, trailing off into the thousand yard stare. "It's awful. What was done to him. It's - not right. Who does that to another human being?"

Rick shifts beside her but Kate doesn't look at him. She can tell by the faint scent of soot that he's been looking at the crime scene. "Thank you, Ms. Rosario. If you think of anything else…" Kate presses her card into the woman's loose hand, and clammy fingers curl up automatically.

Clutch at Kate, keeping her there.

And then Ms. Rosario reaches out and grabs Castle's hand, his pinky and ring finger so that they make an awkward, startled triangle.

"Pray with me," the woman pleads. Asks. "It's so wrong, such evil."

Kate is too stunned to reply, but the odor of burnt flesh still clinging in her nostrils keeps her there, rooted to the sidewalk.

"It does feel evil," Castle says beside her. He's not supposed to be here. He keeps doing this. She can't have him worming his way onto cases when this - this looks like _her_ case.

Vikram was supposed to be meeting the dead man.

"Dear God." Rosario bows her head.

Kate startles and shoots a look to her husband, but he's following suit, tilting his chin down and closing his eyes.

And his hand reaches for hers, a long-held practice, his broad and encompassing hand closing over hers. Warming her fingers.

"Give us your peace, Lord. We need an end to this, once and for all."

She opens her mouth to - what? - do something, say something, to withdraw her hand from the woman's clasp.

But she doesn't.

And end to this, once and for all.

"Let this woman find the answers she's seeking-"

Her breath catches.

"-let love forgive all things. In Jesus' name-"

"Amen," Rick says, with gusto, but he's lifting his eyes to hers.

She hears nothing over the sound of her own heart in her throat.

—–


	74. We got married

#96

* * *

three words : We got married

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

"No, we didn't."

Automatic, before she can even wake up. And then she looks down at her left hand and her jaw drops.

And then her smile blooms over her face and she turns into him, sliding her left hand over his chest and cupping the side of his face. "We really did," she whispers.

Her kiss is soft at first, caressing, and then she's all over him, sliding her knee across his hips and straddling his torso. He grips her waist and drags the silk of her nightgown up her back, rubbing this thumbs under her breasts until she groans.

Her tongue, her teeth, the hot mouth that travels down his jaw and back to his ear. "We got married," she whispers.

"We certainly did." He loves her enthusiasm, but even more he loves how she lays over him, her arms wrapping around his chest, her head to the slope of his shoulder. Settling in with him.

His wife.

He cups the back of her head and touches his lips to her forehead, having a moment.

Her fingers tickle down his sides and skim the waist band of his boxers. "When's the honeymoon?" she hums.

Moment's over.

—–


	75. castle performance anxiety

#97

* * *

prompt: castle performance anxiety :)

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

"It's not gonna work," he groaned, head tilting back.

"No, no, it's just fine." She hurriedly tried to soothe him, a little too flustered to be smooth. Her skin was electric, blood thrumming. "It'll be just fine. Just like always."

"I can't." He closed his eyes.

"You can. You can," she cajoled, sliding closer.

"It's too much - pressure. After - after all this time."

"You've done it before. Why would it be any different now?"

"Kate," he gritted out, flashing her a look.

"I'm serious. You're charming, competent - you know I love it when you-"

"This isn't subtle, Beckett. _Seducing_ me."

"Is it working?" she murmured, lifting an eyebrow.

He closed his eyes again. "It's - too much."

She sighed, tried not to look disappointed. "A little performance anxiety, Rick. That's all."

He growled and jerked his head to her, but she touched his hand and leaned back against the wall with him.

"Kate." Pleading.

"You don't have to do it," she said. "It's a book reading like a thousand other book readings, but I - understand."

"Everything - in the papers, they all ask me - _where were you, do you know what happened to you_? And I can't do it."

"Page Six can be a bitch," she sighed. She knew exactly. Ever since his disappearance had made such a splash, and then especially after she'd gone on any news media outlet that would have her, the people of New York City thought their personal tragedy was public property. Questions were the least of it.

It was the way people talked about him. To her _face_. How he didn't deserve her and she should let him go. Or, alternately, how she was a bitch and he had probably done a runner. Escaped his life with her.

She had heard it all. It wasn't fun. "This is your life, our life, Castle," she said finally, lacing her fingers with his. "You used to love these readings, staying connected with the local bookstores, bringing in foot traffic. And I - love hearing you."

He swallowed audibly, his head tilting back against the wall.

She squeezed his hand, brought his knuckles to her lips. "We're going to have to decide, you know. Whether or not we let them beat us. The things they say? They don't know us, Castle. They don't know the man you are. I do."

He opened his eyes, turned his head to her. Sometimes he had such wounded vulnerability in him, these raw places. He usually did a masterful job of covering them up, but not today.

He would do it. Of course he would. He had made a commitment to the bookstore long before he'd gone missing, and he would fulfill his contractual obligations.

And besides that, she knew he loved it. Meeting fans, weaving a spell with his words, seeing their reactions to his books. He always talked with them, joked, made them feel like friends. It was part of his charm.

His allure.

He had allured her, hadn't he?

"I'll be in the back," she promised softly. "The whole time. And then after-"

"After?" he got out.

She leaned in, touched her mouth to his jaw at his ear. "Just you and me. Private reading, Mr Castle."

—–


	76. Freezer3x16 happens post-8x02

**#98**

* * *

Freezer/3x16 happens post-8x02

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

All this, the last few months of loneliness and regret and guilt and just _missing_ her, and now this is where it's led them. Dying in a frozen boxcar while a terrorist escapes with a dirty bomb.

"My - fault," she says.

They have both stopped shivering, long ago, and he knows somewhere in his head that's bad. Very bad. But he's just too tired to care. About any of it. "Followed you anyway," he croaks.

"Weren't - supposed to."

"Didn't-" He has to stop to force the frozen air inside his lungs, whistling in pain. "Didn't keep me safe, did it?"

She makes a noise and they both fall silent. His imagination torments him, all the things she did without him, all the ways she wouldn't trust him, but this is it. This is the end of the road.

There is a very slim chance that Ryan and Espo will find this place, but he can't feel his own legs. Can't feel anything more than the severity of the pain in his head with every breath.

"I'm sorry," she calls. Her voice is almost nothing.

He tilts his head down painfully, like his vertebrae are cracking, only to find Kate sliding unconscious. "Hey, hey, no," he calls, his voice broken as he moves to catch her.

Everything hurts. The cold has penetrated deep, his limbs feel like dead meat. Her head lolls back to his shoulder and he tries to cup the side of her face, softly slap her cheek.

"Kate," he chokes. "Come on. Kate. Stay with me."

Her eyes remain closed. Her lashes diamonds of ice. Her lips are parted, and purple, her face as pale as porcelain. He hurts everywhere, makes it hard to move, to get to her, and he can't feel her skin. Can't feel anything.

"Kate. Please."

She remains lifeless.

He can't believe this is how they end. Separated for months, unwilling to come home with him, not seeing her every morning when he opens his eyes, sitting alone in his office in the dark every night. Without her.

And yet, here they are, dying together.

"Partners," he rasps, voice burning with cold. His hand fumbles at her cheek and strokes her hair back so he can see her face.

Beautiful. He hurts everywhere, but especially his heart.

* * *

 _Could you do a part two to the 8x02 AU with them in the freezer?_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

#198

* * *

She didn't expect to ever wake again, but she wakes.

Fire burns through her lungs and she surges upright, crashes to one side as her body fails to orient quickly enough.

"Whoa, whoa, Captain, hang on." Ryan has her by a shoulder and tries to push her back onto-

gurney. A gurney? An ambulance. She's in the back of an ambulance. Ryan. The doors are open to the night, a heating blanket with its metallic lining up against her neck. Her fingers burn. The warehouse is lit by crime scene tech spotlights. In one sweep of her gaze, she takes everything in, assesses.

"Castle," she croaks.

"Next door," Ryan says, jerking his thumb. "Espo is with him. He's still out."

"Castle," she mumbles, prying an IV line out of the back of her hand. A someone jumps from behind her, and she startles hard, moving for her weapon. A paramedic, and he backs off, but his face is strident.

"You can't-"

"Not a good idea right now," she rasps. Her throat burns. She slides off the gurney on unstable legs and almost collapses. But Ryan is there. He pulls the blanket around her shoulders, forces her to hang on to it even as she hangs on to him.

"I'll take you. Come on."

It's a production, crawling out of the back of the ambulance. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knows it looks undignified for the Captain of the Twelfth to be on her hands and knees almost at the pavement, but she doesn't have it in her to care right now.

Ryan hauls her to her feet and she lurches for the bus parked next to the one she just crawled out of. One door is half open. Her heart is an icy fist in her chest as she tries to nudge it aside.

Ryan does it for her, opening the right hand door wider, and she sees Espo's dark and serious face inside as he peeks out.

"Oh, it's you," he says. Which she doesn't understand - tone or feeling there - but she lifts her hand to him in silent command and already starts putting a foot on the running board.

He frowns but he clasps her hand by the wrist and yanks hard.

She's pulled right up into the back of the ambulance, her breath leaving her in a rush of shaky adrenaline as she falls forward. Esposito puts her off, but angles her towards the shelf-bench at the side of the bus.

At Castle's side.

His cheeks are mottled red from frostbite, his nose. Like a drunkard. His lashes are light but casting deep shadows under his eyes. She stumbles forward and falls to his side, lays her hand on his shoulder.

The warming blanket has been pulled up to his neck. Another is behind his head and cradling his ears.

Oh, his ears.

Oh, God. Those pink, soft shells. She cups the side of his face and tears slip down her cheeks, silent tears, as she feels the rough edge of frostbite there too.

"Rick," she husks. She tilts her head down to his shoulder and lets the tears fall over her nose and soak into his jacket. "I'm sorry."

When he wakes, she'll do better. She'll _be_ better.

She doesn't know how. She just knows she has to.

—–


	77. night before captaincy

**#99**

* * *

three words prompt: night before captaincy

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

"Are we getting boring?" she says, wrinkling her nose from underneath him.

He rocks his hips against her. "I'd say no."

She gives a little giggle even as she rolls her eyes. "I mean - I'll be stuck behind a desk for seventy percent of my day and you're stuck at home-"

"I'll have you know that I plan to expand my PI business-"

"Oh is _that_ what we're calling it? Spending an exorbitant amount of money so you can have a little man cave."

He growls and nips at her mouth, but she surges up and claims a deeper kiss. She tries to roll him to his back but he forces her down with his full weight, keeping her pinned.

She could probably roll him anyway if she wants to, but she doesn't. She only rubs her hands up his back and draws him closer, chest to chest. "So you'll be hitting the streets while _I'm_ stuck behind a desk."

"Yes," he says smugly.

"I might have made a terrible mistake," she mourns.

He chuckles and dusts her jaw with another kiss, moving down. "You'll be calling me all day, trying to live vicariously through my cases."

"I hate you," she groans. Mostly because of where his mouth his, his wandering fingers, and he knows that, but he likes the sound of her breathy and a little wild, and all he's done is touch her a little.

"You love me," he corrects, giving her what she wants.

"Oh," she cries out, hips rocking. "Yes. That."

"Say it."

"You love me." Pert, lips crooked as she grins at him, unable to keep a handle on it as he strokes her. Her moan in the bedroom is stuttering. "You really love me."

"I really do," he promises, shifting when she reaches for him. Grunting when he fingers find his weakness.

"I really love you, too."

—–


	78. If you insist

**#100**

* * *

"If you insist." Thank you.

— THEJOYINMYHEART

* * *

He holds open the door. "After you." As if she doesn't take point at every scene they come upon, as if she's not daily in the lead when they walk up to a suspect's door.

He still holds the door like a gentleman.

"If you insist," she says demurely.

She goes into Remi's ahead of him, and he trails behind, her dress in its garment bag still folded over his arm. His touch is light at her back, and she can't help but compare the end of her night with the beginning, Castle ushering her to their usual booth versus the fireman who blatantly asked if they were going to hook-up.

Romance is the difference.

She's not sure what to do with that.

She likes the tenderness to his eyes, how the dim lighting makes them grey, richer somehow.

Beckett sits on the bench seat, watching as he carefully lays her dress over the back of the booth. When he sits down across from her, his knee brushes hers as he shifts to get comfortable. She realizes that her body is leaning towards him, her attention complete.

The waitress approaches, hands on her hips. "What'll you have?"

"Is the kitchen still open?" Castle asks, his smile charming enough to make the waitress relax, smile back.

"Yeah, honey. For a little while anyway."

"Oh, good," Castle rumbles, turning that smile on Beckett. "We just made it. Know what you want?"

Yeah. Actually. She does.

She wants this to be a date.

—–


	79. Page6 paparazzi speculation

#101

* * *

Would you consider to write about "Page6 paparazzi speculation" (sorry, cheated a bit) ㈳7 thank you

— LEAZRULE

* * *

She can't deny.

It hurts, reading what they're saying about him.

Kate traces her finger over the photo of him, catching on the arm hooked through the crook of his elbow.

Not her arm. Someone else's arm. Dark hair, face averted from the camera - a paparazzi shot from across the street.

The New York Public Library. Which has always sort of kind of been their place, but now it's…

Just the library.

To be fair, it is just the library. He went before her, he'll go after-

After her.

Why does she torture herself with photos and blurbs and a gossip columnist's speculation?

She lifts her hand from the newspaper and settles it in her lap instead, breakfast uneaten on her desk, unappetizing. She finds herself cradling her phone against her stomach, swallowing down the sour taste of yogurt and kale.

Everything she does is - not enough. She meant to be smart, meant to be clever about this, and _fast_ \- that was important. To investigate cautiously, yes, as befitted a woman who has promised herself to a future with a certain man, just as he would have cautioned her. But even with all the care she's taking, she still wants this over quickly.

It's not. It's not over.

Does he move on from her? Is he doing that right now in this photo, bad resolution and all?

Rick moves on and she's-

left.

As it always is. As it always works out for her. Only this time, she chose it. She put herself here, hoping that delayed gratification would bring a stronger, more lasting reward.

He's going to move on from her. God knows she deserves it. Taking too long, not good enough, not fast enough, not doing enough-

He's going to stop aching soon; the anger will wash out to acceptance. He'll look at her with resignation, and then, at the last, with a kind of pity that will appear to her poor, desperate heart to be tenderness.

The grief might echo for a while. It might stay his hand a few times. But eventually-

the world spins on.

She has to brace herself now for being the wife of a man who is no longer her husband.

She has to find a way to live with that.

—–


	80. Season 2 Christmas

**#102 & #135**

* * *

Season 2 Christmas

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

She's a picture.

Elbows on her desk, leaning in over paperwork with her keyboard pushed to one side. The loop of garland he hung earlier in the week is still strung across the front of her desk and tangled around the cords that connect monitor to CPU. The Santa hat is gone, of course it is, but she's tapping the pencil with its red Christmas light topper. The light blinks wildly when she knocks it against her desktop.

Her lips curl as it flares to life. Her head tosses a little, as if she's disgusted with herself for it. She nibbles on a thumb nail and marks through something, flips the page.

Ah, cold cases. That's what she's doing.

On Christmas Eve.

Castle slips into the break room, which is already low-light in deference to the late hour, and he sets his package on the table. He moves to the blinds and slowly twists them closed, watching her to be sure she doesn't notice him.

She never does.

He goes back to the little cafe table and pulls out the Charlie Brown tree. Thin little sapling with its Linus blanket, its lone red bulb. He saw it at a novelty shop, and it was a whim, but he can't help himself.

She does something to him, and he finds himself wanting to share it.

He sets up the tree, spreads out the fake covering of snow around it, leaves the sparkling glitter flakes across the table. And then the presents, small things, nothing to point her out or make her feel put on the spot.

A tin of butter cookies with a bow on top. A package of the good coffee. A mug with stylized handcuffs. A bag of seasonally-shaped marshmallows.

She'll know its him. But it won't matter; it will be a quirk of her lips, a shake of her head.

He leaves the Twelfth without saying a word, but he has a quirk on his lips as well, and he's shaking his head at himself.

What she does to him.

—–

 **#135**

* * *

Oh the season 2 Christmas. Oh wow. That was beautiful. Can we get her point of view? I know it's not a 3 word prompt so it kinda breaks the rules but that story had my heart wrenching

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

When her neck aches from staring at the closed case file and the coroner's report starts to swim in front of her eyes, she grunts and gets to her feet.

Of course she smacks a knee into the top of the desk and stumbles as she trips over the rolling foot of the chair, but she's up at least. Her feet tingle with disuse, her vision swims for a moment from the sudden change in altitude, and she covers her disorientation by swiping for her coffee mug.

Time for a break.

Beckett shoves through the break room door and stops in her tracks.

There's a - there's - there are decorations and she knew about the garland and the stupid pen but this is - this is-

A tin of butter cookies with a bow on top. A package of the good coffee. A mug with stylized handcuffs for a handle. A bag of seasonally-shaped marshmallows.

She doesn't know how long she stands there, soaked in the kind of stunned disbelief that usually comes with grief. Only when she can finally move, it's not under her own steam, it's a push from behind as the door smacks into her and drives her forward.

"Oh, Detective Beckett, sorry." The uniform ducks his head and backs out the door again, Beckett too slow to tell him _no, it's fine._

Is it fine?

Is it grief?

She's not sure any longer.

She steps towards the cafe table under the windows where a little thin tree with a single red ornament bows over. It's a Charlie Brown tree, she remembers that much from childhood, but nestled on the Linus blanket wrapping its base are all these little gifts.

They're from him. Castle.

The writer tag-along sidekick… partner. The insufferable manchild on a sugar rush.

She reaches out and runs her fingers over the bow - velvet and achingly red, so that it caresses her skin - and she can't help but wish he stuck around tonight.

Just to mess with him. Or have him mess with her while she pretends to concentrate. Or-

No.

She's not good company on Christmas Eve. Barely civil for the any of the winter months, really, but especially the holidays.

The uniform's duck and run for cover is probably the best way to deal with her right now, and it's a good thing Castle didn't show up on her horizon tonight. She knows herself too well. Surprise gifts in solitary silence is definitely the limit of her endurance.

Kate tugs on the bow and it comes unraveled just that easily. It hurts her feelings, like a wound, the beautiful bow undone, but she pushes it aside and pops open the lid of the butter cookies, snatches one from under the paper.

She can do cookies. She needs another cup of coffee and this will sweeten the sludge.

Kate pours herself a mugful and raises it in silent toast, dunks her cookie in the dark, steaming liquid.

One more Christmas Eve keeping the watch.

She'll have to find a way to thank him.

Subtly, of course.

—–


	81. Kate kissed me

**#103**

* * *

Kate kissed me

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

He rubs his lips and shivers, pats his mouth as if to be sure it's really there.

"Dad?"

Still there.

"Dad, what are you doing?" Alexis says, giving him a slant look and waving her spoon in the air. "Did your lips go numb?"

"Kate kissed me," he blurts out.

His daughter drops her spoon to the bowl, sits upright on the couch. "Dad!"

"It was undercover. I mean, it was a cover. At first. It was a cover at first and then-"

"And then?" she squeaks.

He blinks and stares at her. "And then."

"Dad!"

"Kate kissed me."

Alexis's mouth drops open, her cheeks flush. The bowl of ice cream is forgotten. She squeals and then claps her hands against her mouth, practically bouncing on the couch. "She _kissed_ you. Dad! What does that mean?"

He wishes he could squeal and clap his hands. He really does.

But he has no _idea_ what this means. She's with Josh. He's-

in love with her.

He's in love with Kate Beckett.

—–


	82. my best friend

**#104** (set hypothetical future - late season 8, early 9)

* * *

3 word prompt: my best friend

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

His fingers hook through hers and she glances up from the paper to see him watching her. Studying, that crooked smile on his face.

She jostles his hand but keeps the connection. "Hey?"

He shrugs, _nothing really_ , and she lets him look, watches him back just because it's a lazy Sunday morning and he looks a little too over-awed for her liking. And then she resumes her reading of the sports section, letting him.

"Anything good?" he says after a long moment.

"Knicks won."

He scoffs and she grins, smile slipping over her features. She shifts closer to him on the bed and their shoulders touch. He gives a softening sound, as if he's definitely okay with that even though he couldn't care less about basketball scores.

They both know that.

"Nothing for you," she murmurs, leaning her cheek against the top of his shoulder.

His fingers shake loose of hers and his hand comes up to touch the side of her face. So carefully, that touch, and it makes goose bumps shiver down her spine.

But what he says next isn't at all what she was expecting.

"You're my best friend, you know?" His fingers stroke down her jaw. "I'm not sure I ever had that before you."

Her heart flips and trembles, but she gently turns her mouth into his hand, a kiss at his wrist where she can just feel his own pulse beating for her.

"I know," she says. She lifts her hand to lace with his, drawing his arm down to her lap. On top of the paper. "Still have that, Rick."

She will do whatever it takes to erase the longing out of his voice.

Whatever it takes to put them back on solid ground.

—–


	83. Kitchen sex butt

**#105**

* * *

Kitchen sex butt

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

"Ow, shit, what am I sitting on?" she groans.

Castle can barely move to help, slumped with his knees against the cabinets and his elbows on the granite counter, his face mashed into her shoulder but lurching dangerously south.

"A fork. Castle. _Why_?" They are still hopelessly tangled together, and it takes a second for her to produce the offensive utensil.

"Uh. Because you're done?" Her blank look has him continuing. "Stick a fork in you, you're…"

Best not to keep going; he can sense that much. He rolls his head to look at her face. Her eyebrow is raised, though her saturated eyes tell him another story. She finds his puns sappy, and sappy does it for her after sex.

"You - interrupted my washing dishes," he tries to explain. Every time a word comes out and skirts the top of her breast, her fingers in his hair clutch. As if she can't help it. As if she's still buzzing a little.

"You - didn't have to look so competent at it," she says roughly. She tosses the fork into the sink and it clatters loudly, shattering the heavy daze that still had him in its grip.

He rouses and tries to straighten up, but his knee grinds, bone on bone. He yelps, Kate hisses in sympathy, kisses at his forehead, hands cupping his face to bring him away from the danger zone.

"My fault, my fault," she murmurs. "Bad for your knee. I know better."

"I think I - broke your shirt."

"A few buttons. It's fine. You should sit."

"I'm not sitting bare-ass on the floor," he mutters.

"Your knee."

"I'll just - lean here. Like this. For a second."

"If you motorboat my boobs, I will kick you. Reflexively, Castle, but you know what happens when you try that right after-"

"Promise I'm not _trying_ to motorboat your boobs. Breasts. Can we use a more mature name for them? These are mature specimens-"

"Mature means old. Are you saying my _breasts_ are old-"

"No, no. Not - that was not my-"

Lips quirk. He huffs back at her, tries easing upright again.

His knee holds this time without the terrible agony, just a particular throb. Her hand on his hip, ostensibly for support but a little too much caressing for his washed out state.

"Beckett, stop playing."

"But you're fun to play with," she hums. Her legs hook slowly around his waist, drag him in against her.

"And you're still naked." He bumps his chest to hers in reminder of exactly how sensitive she is, how reciprocal that feeling.

"Fine," she grumps, but she does lean into him. She threads her arms around his torso and lays her cheek to his shoulder in the way Beckett does not.

The way Kate sometimes does, when she's sad, when she's her most happy and it's come back around to tighten at her heart.

He drops a kiss to the top of her forehead, content to stand mostly naked in his kitchen with her. Content to bare-ass the rest of the night if that's what she wants.

"Ow," she mutters. "I think that fork left a mark."

—–


	84. just get in

**#106** (season 8 spoilers)  & **178**

* * *

Three word prompts: just get in

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

She gasped when a hand grabbed her by the back of her jacket, yanked her into the darkness of an alley. She spun immediately to counter attack, had her fisted keys primed when his arm raised to block her.

"Castle!" she stumbled, lurching out of her strike and putting herself off balance with her momentum. "What the hell."

He ignored her, ripped her keys out of her hand - hard enough that her fingers twisted in the ring - and he hustled her down the delivery lane towards the back of the property.

"Rick?"

He said nothing to that, but he did push a little harder, completely unlike him. She had just gotten home, she weary with meetings and police procedures and mandatory harassment training, and she wanted only to go to bed.

"Castle, this isn't funny. I just got back into town. How do you know where I live-"

He snarled something that sounded like _I know where you ought to live_ but he didn't look at her, and she wasn't sure she had really heard that. He wasn't often that snarky; he wore his heart on his sleeve.

Except tonight his sleeve was black leather and he was pushing her towards his car. Ferrari. He knew what the Ferrari did to her.

"Castle. No-"

He yanked open the passenger door and glared at her. "Just get in."

And she did.

Not meekly, no. But she didn't comment and she tucked her legs into the footwell, and he slammed the door on her. She put on her seatbelt and folded her hands in her lap and she waited.

He settled behind the wheel, slamming his own door as well, and when he touched the button to start the car, he jabbed it a lot harder than was necessary.

She tried again. "Rick-"

"I'm done asking permission," he growled, shooting her a baleful look. "I'm taking you-"

"No. I asked for space-"

"And you'll get it. You've gotten it. I've been good, damn it, Kate. I have done as you asked, but this is-" He shook his head and growled. "This is _confusing_. You still look at me like you always did, you say you don't want a divorce, well, fine. Fine. But you are going to talk to me. We are going to talk."

"Castle-"

"We're going for coffee." He put the car in gear and she set her jaw, calculating time and effort and how wide a target that painted on his back now.

She took out her phone and quietly removed the sim card, trying not to be noticeable, slipped it back into her pocket. Her duffle he had thrown into the space behind them, but she had turned off her laptop entirely. His car didn't have GPS but it was lojacked, and it could, in theory, be turned on remotely and used to track them.

An hour, maybe. She was supposed to be inside her rental place, alone, not with her husband who had shown up unaware and tracked her down. He had parked a few blocks over as well, so that might be in their favor.

Okay. Okay, she could talk for an hour. Carefully. She could explain her issues a little better, she could do a better job about laying out her personal demons and how closure wasn't what she'd thought it was, how her obsessive nature kept rearing its ugly head. There were real things she could talk about. She could.

But he was heading away from the cafe they normally used, away from Manhattan entirely. "Castle. You said coffee."

"We are going for coffee," he answered. His words were clipped, anger lined his face.

"Where? New Jersey?"

He turned and speared her with a look. "Yes."

"Rick!"

"Time you were honest with me."

—–

#178

—–

Karlo's Koffee Haus in Hoboken was a former warehouse renovated in the grunge hipster style, modeled after every urban renewal project ever undertaken, and as such, singularly underwhelming.

Castle had not known where he was driving when he'd hustled her to the car, he had only known that New York was suffocating him with all its space (he was sick to death of _space)._

Beside him, Kate was silent. He had parked in the narrow lot allocated to Karlo's poser horror show, but neither of them had gotten out of the car. As if opening the doors and stepping onto the gritty tarmac would acknowledge the end of their clandestine affair.

Castle swallowed and shoved his hand into the release, popped open the door despite the sense of foreboding.

She followed suit.

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and unfolded his body from the low body of the Ferrari. He'd had the roof up in deference to the cold, and when he shut the door, the frame rattled in ominous design.

Castle fisted his key fob, mentally paced himself, _slow down._

She was waiting for him at the edge of the parking space, shifting on her feet, those hard sculpted edges of her body imprinting on his vision. He met her there and she reached out a slim hand, gripped the sleeve of his black leather jacket.

She wasn't holding his hand, she wasn't asking for that. She was merely hanging onto him for a moment. When he moved toward Karlo's, it broke that strange foray of her touch.

He held the door open for her and she murmured her thanks under her breath as she went inside ahead of him. They stepped up to the counter as one, no line to make them wait, and Beckett ordered a fat tire and an orange scone, completely throwing him off his rehearsed game.

He went with espresso just to order something familiar, to not have to look at the menu, and she wound up paying at the other end, rebuffing his attempt to withdraw his wallet with merely a touch to his hip.

He was ensorceled. She managed it every time, weaving a spell over him with her presence alone, her calm certitude.

When he was with her, he believed.

It was when she was out of view, when he was out of the range of her beautiful voodoo, that he relapsed to frustration and wanting and anger.

He was aware that it had always been that way, but he still had found no charm against it.

She sat down with him in a straight-backed love seat, all hard lines to the furniture that matched the jut of her spine. She folded her hands in her lap and waited.

He had lost the words in the face of her bewitchment.

Their orders were called and he rose out of habit, or perhaps instinct, and went forward to collect their coffees (not koffees, Karlo, thanks very much). When he brought them back, plus the crinkling paper bag with her orange scone, she smiled at him.

And he lost it.

Castle dropped down to the seat as if felled, his knees chopped out from under him. The coffee jostled in the hand-off, but she rescued both, taking them away from him with a quick movement.

He sat back and closed his eyes and tried to collect himself, find himself in the midst of her. Kate Beckett. Black magic.

He heard the mugs settle on the scarred wooden table top and then her hand came to his thigh. "Rick."

"I can't do this," he choked out. He lifted his head and opened his eyes and he felt it all, the bleak inscape of their future played out before him. "I can't. Either you love me or you don't. Just - tell me."

"I love you."

He bowed his head forward and breathed.

"There are - a hundred other things that make this into more than either/or, Rick."

"That's not good enough," he growled and jerked his head up, his eyes burning. "Not good enough. Do _better_ than that. I deserve better - _you_ deserve better than that."

She sat still as a stone.

He dropped his hand on top of hers and crushed her fingers in his grip until her wedding ring began digging into them both. "Start talking, Beckett, because there is no _more than_." He twisted the ring on her finger. "There's only this."

This time she opened her mouth and started talking.

—–


	85. You're not there

**#107**

* * *

Three word prompt - "You're not there."

— KESSLYNB

* * *

"Castle," she hissed, coming around the corner fast and grabbing him. "We talked about this. Why are you not at home?"

"You're not there," he pouted.

She pushed on him, trying to herd him away from the bullpen, from the fishbowl of her office. A back hall, even a storage closet would be handy. "Castle," she groaned. "Don't make this harder on us."

"It's not me who-"

"Right," she said, narrowing her eyes. "Because _you_ didn't just pack everything up and get in the car and come down to the Twelfth. No. That wasn't you at all."

"It-" Castle dropped the act. "Yeah, it was me. But, minor correction, we did not drive the car. We took the subway."

Her jaw dropped, and she flashed a look to the baby strapped to his chest. "You - took him on the subway?"

That pleased flush washed out of his face. "I… yes."

"Germs, Castle!"

"He's eight weeks!"

"Why did you _do_ this?" she groaned. But she stepped into him and buried her face between his chest and the baby's little sleeping body, nuzzling her nose against him. "Hey, sweet boy. Why'd you let Daddy convince you to take him out?"

Castle huffed at her, but his arm unfolded and refolded around her, pressing them together, and she let him, let herself, one moment of yearning in the middle of her first week back at work.

"Is it weird?" she whispered, tilting her head back to look at Castle. "He's not even - I didn't _birth_ him, but I feel just the same. Can't bear to be gone, kinda can't wait to leave when I'm trapped there."

"Not weird," Castle said. He sounded choked up. "Not weird. Adopted is no different. Feel the same feelings, do the same stupid and embarrassing things too."

"I have it on good authority that I'll be hiding in the bushes when he goes to kindergarten," she murmured.

He laughed, and the baby startled at his chest, opened those dark eyes. Kate lifted her chin and kissed his little forehead. "Hey, baby. Don't worry. I'll have a whole detectives' squad following you to school your first day. Won't embarrass you at all."

"Right."

Right.

—–

3-word prompt - please continue #107 ("You're not there."). Thank you!

— ANONYMOUS

#249 (continuation of #107)

* * *

"I'm home," she whispered, not wanting to wake anyone but hoping they're near. "Rick?"

She toed off her shoes and left her bag on the floor of the entryway, not bothering to even hang her jacket. She went immediately for the office where the playpen had been set up eight weeks ago when they'd brought Oliver home, but the office was empty.

"Rick?" She passed through the doorway and checked the bathroom but that was all silence and stillness, undisturbed space. She took a moment to check herself in the mirror, but the bruises hadn't miraculously faded in the hour it had taken to get home, and Rick was going to notice.

She turned, lightly rubbing two fingers at her neck where it was raw, and she headed back for the living room and the stairs leading to the baby's room. Halfway up the stairs, Rick appeared at the top, holding wet and wriggling Oliver in his arms, bundled in a frog-hood towel.

"Hey," she said, startled he was awake. She started climbing the stairs to meet them. "How's my baby?"

"I'm good but he's been fussing-"

She huffed and he grinned and she leaned in and kissed her husband for that one because he thought he was so clever. And then she kissed her boy.

He gripped a fistful of her hair and kept her close that way, whimpering, and she deftly took him out of Rick's arms. He grunted and squirmed for her, and she bundled him close even though he was still damp from the bath. "Hey, my sweet stray. What have you and Daddy been doing?"

"He tried mashed carrots at dinner," Rick answered, nudging her down the hall for the baby's room. "Or rather, I tried to get him to try them. I had to wash his hair, Kate."

"They said not-"

"I know, but carrots were mashed into his scalp. He's fast. And strong. And he thinks it's funny."

At Castle's little growl of disapproval, Kate turned her eyes to him, cradling the baby close even as he whined and whimpered against her chest. Rick had apparently shrugged out of his t-shirt to give their adopted baby his skin-to-skin time after bath.

Even though Oliver was whining and resistant to being cuddled, it was Castle, she saw, who had been the real victim here.

"Oh, Oliver, baby, did you pelt your dad with carrots?" she laughed, reaching out to pluck orange mush from the hair at Rick's temple.

He startled and darted up a hand, raked his fingers through his hair only to come away with more carrot. "Oh, great. Well, they say it's good for your skin. I'll shower after we get him settled for the night."

"Did you put the oil in his hair?" she asked, touching Oliver's forehead with her fingers. "It doesn't feel-"

"I did, soaked right into his scalp. Do you think I should put more?"

"No, we'll wait. See what it's like tomorrow. But Rick, next time? Wet washcloth and dab at it. No soap."

He grumbled a little at her Monday-morning quarterbacking, but when he turned to nudge her into the baby's room, his face dropped. "Kate."

She winced. He reached out and pushed her hair back from her neck, untangling it from the baby's fingers to see.

She stayed silent, swaying with Oliver at the threshold of his room, watching Rick study the bruises.

"What happened?" he asked finally. His gaze lifted to her eyes.

She nodded, an acknowledgment that his feelings were valid, but his fears were not. "We had it in hand. A suspect in interrogation managed to get the jump on me. Across the table. Blink of an eye, really."

"Got the jump on you."

"Been a little tired lately," she said, trying to be light with it. Oliver had only been with them for eight weeks and he was still struggling to bond with them, to feel safe and cared for and secure in his new home. No one slept well. "It was over fast, Espo was right there."

Rick's fingers traced her shoulder and then touched a mark at her neck. "Big hand," he said roughly. "Was he high?"

She nodded.

"Are you okay?"

"I've been better," she admitted, a wan smile when his eyes jerked up to hers.

"I'll take Ollie, finish our kangaroo care time. You go downstairs, glass of wine, bath. I'll join you in a minute." He reached in and scooped Oliver out of her arms. "Come here, Roo. It's you and me, buddy. Mommy gets mornings."

She let the baby go, grateful for both the chance to give him up and the moment of holding him after a long day. She kissed his cheeks while Castle positioned him on his chest, and then she watched while Rick settled them both in the rocking chair.

She dropped a last kiss to her husband's temple, her hand on his nape. "Mm, mashed carrots. Yummy. Oliver, next time, baby, you should try them instead of throwing them." She nuzzled her little foundling's nose and he laughed, such a bright sound in the small room.

"Go, Kate. I'll be down in a few minutes."

She left them there, walked away, only because he was right. She had hours every morning of this same special time, and what she needed tonight was to not think about how only a few seconds longer, a grip that tight, would have meant the end of cuddling and rocking her baby.

Wine and a bath and Rick.

So that tomorrow morning she could hold her son in the sunlight and kiss his sweet laughing face and not cry over what all she might have missed.

—–


	86. three baby bears

**#108**

* * *

three baby bears

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

"Hey there, little cubs."

Three bright faces turn to her as one, blue eyes to brown to green, and all three scramble to their feet and come running.

Kate grins back and drops to her knees to catch them - or, well, just her own; at least _he_ wants to see her. The Ryans come in at her back and Jenny is reaching for Sarah Grace while Kevin picks up his son, but Rick stops in the entryway, his hand to the top of her head.

"How'd they do?" he asks his daughter.

Alexis gives an enigmatic shrug and gestures to their furry costumes. "They didn't want to take them off. But I only let them have two pieces of candy. No more. So hopefully not too crazy tonight."

"We appreciate it, Alexis." The Ryans are packing up their kids' Halloween haul, collecting blankets and action figures and Sarah Grace's unicorn. "We've got the taxi waiting on us."

Castle steps past her and starts to help them, clearing the mess from Alexis's living room, getting their stuff as well.

Ignoring the hustle, Kate steals kisses from her son, cupping the back of his head in his fuzzy bear costume. He's adorable in his little ears and the round puff of a tail at his bottom. He was walking like a penguin all through the apartment building when they went trick or treating, waddling, unused to the suit and the paws.

"Did you have so much fun with Lex?"

"Fun!" He beams at her, wrinkling his nose where the black eyeliner is apparently irritating him. "Hi, Mommy."

She laughs and scoops him up, bulky in his costume. "Hey, little bear. Let's tell Lex good night. We'll take you home and tell stories until Daddy fall asleep."

"Stop making old jokes with my son," Castle grumbles, but his glare isn't even close to fierce, more like pathetically adoring, and he leans in and kisses her first. "Good party."

"Mm," she hums. "Very good party. Who knew Espo had it in him?"

"Home?" Castle says, sounding hopeful.

"Yes," she promises. "More party at home."

"Halloween is so my favorite," he grins.

—–


	87. That's a non-sequitur

**#110**

* * *

That's a non-sequitur

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

"You have to. Bananas are loaded with potassium."

Kate cast her husband a bewildered look. "Do what?"

"You have to."

"What in the world do _bananas_ have to do with this?"

His mouth opened and closed. She raised her eyebrows and gestured towards the wreck of the living room. He was caught by the couch, surrounded by clear storage containers half unloaded with Christmas decorations strewn from furniture to floor to tree.

"Castle, you promised."

"I… you said you would help. You have to help me. It's our Christmas-"

"It's mostly yours," she muttered, stepping carefully around the tangled strands of lights. "I didn't bring this into our marriage."

"But you said-"

"And what do bananas have to do with anything?"

"Um. Non sequiturs sometimes work?"

"No. They don't."

"Will you pretty please help me with the tree?"

She sighed at him, but he looked kind of adorable in his jaunty Santa hat and ugly Christmas sweater and and grey sweats. And his bare toes on the wood floor made her want to kiss him.

First she had to _get_ to him to kiss him. "You have any mistletoe?"

His face lit up, exactly like the burned out bulbs were supposed to have done, and she couldn't help feeling a little spark of excitement herself.

"I have _reams_ of mistletoe," he promised.

He'd made other promises too, promising her he'd chill out this year, that he was going to keep it low key, that she was allowed to initiate the Christmas spirit.

"You're going to help?" he said, making a cautious foray with one foot, but unable to move any closer. "I… could use some help."

"Yeah, you usually could." She sighed, put a boot into an empty container just so she could make it another foot closer. "Castle."

"Is it bad that I love it when you whine my name?"

She rolled her eyes, but she found another blank space, leaped forward and landed within an arm's distance of him.

Castle reached out and snagged her waist, dipped his knees, and picked her up.

She gasped, laughing, as he lifted her - dragged, really - over a pile of scratchy fake holly and plastic pointy pine needles, and finally she was with him, standing practically on top of his feet.

"Hi, there," he whispered. His mouth curved and he leaned in to kiss her.

She stopped him with a touch of two fingers to his lips. "I don't see any mistletoe." She sniffed, tilting her head. "You smell like bananas, actually."

"I just had one," he admitted. "Bulking up for the marathon decorating session."

"Ew, banana breath."

He laughed, but he ducked her touch, kissed her full on the mouth. She squirmed, but he was insistent, and his kiss was thorough.

"Gross, Castle." She wiped the back of her hand over her mouth. "I didn't _want_ a banana."

"Bananas are loaded with potassium," he laughed. Eyebrows dancing. "See? Sometimes it does work."

"You're a goofy idiot. Now, come on. Let's untangle your lights."

—–


	88. Kiss my a

**#111** (re-do of Beckett's 'performance review')

* * *

"Kiss my ass"

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

"Kiss my ass. Sir."

Detective Beckett rose from her chair and strode out of her performance review. Performance review? No, that had been a damn set-up. Run for senator with _those_ men backing her?

No way in hell. She didn't need friends like that.

She stalked down the hall and jabbed her finger at the call button, crossed her arms over her chest to keep the fury from rising up in her throat. The elevator doors opened just as one of the men came out into the hall, hands in his pockets, his body tall and lean.

"Detective Beckett," he called. His voice stentorian, his gaze boring into her even from this great a distance.

"Thanks, but no thanks," she said, ignoring him and stepping onto the elevator. She hit the button for the ground floor and dug her phone out of her pocket.

When the elevator let her off at the lobby, she already had Castle's contact up on her phone, ready, so it was a matter of seconds before he was answering.

"How'd it go?" he said in a rush.

"You won't believe what those assholes said to me."

—–


	89. Beckett has pneumonia

**#112** (season 3)

* * *

Beckett has pneumonia

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

"Where's Beckett?" Castle chirped, glancing around the bullpen for his muse. He dropped his hands to his usual chair, swiveling his head until Esposito reluctantly coughed up information.

"Beckett took a sick day."

Castle gaped at the man. "She does that?"

"When she's sick," Espo said nastily. The boys still weren't acting very kindly towards him and he didn't know _why_.

Maybe it had something to do with abandoning them for the summer. "When she's sick," Castle said slowly, "she's _here_."

Espo cocked his head, narrowing his eyes, but it was his thinking face. "Huh."

"Did you guys get a case and she get kicked off?" Castle asked, growing suspicious.

Espo scowled. "No. She's not on suspension."

"So why did she take a sick day?"

"Look, man, I don't know." Esposito punched a finger Castle's direction. "Why don't you go do some investigating?"

So he did.

She answered her door.

In boy shorts (or, gulp, boyfriend panties? they could be her panties, oh God, he was looking at Beckett in her pale blue underwear) and a long tank that didn't quite cover the shorts. Panties. Underwear.

Pajama bottoms.

"Castle?" Her voice was rough, thick in a way that made his own throat clear reflexively. "What are you doing here?"

"You took a sick day."She blinked, still blocking the doorway."You took a sick day and it behooved me to investigate."

"Why?"

"Because I couldn't believe you were actually sick. I thought you might need your partner to back you up on some illicit case." He gave her a fast once-over and winced. "You are actually sick."

"I don't need back up; I have _pre_ pneumonia," she muttered. "Whatever that is."

"You have pneu _monia_?"

"No," she said, narrowing her eyes at him but simultaneously holding the door open wider. "I have _pre_ -"

"Same thing. Make way. You _do_ need your partner."

He hustled his way inside, pushing past her a little more brusquely than he'd like to, considering how she looked like she might collapse at any moment. But it was necessary, for her sake, because Beckett didn't accept tenderness.

Wait. _Tenderness?_ Ever since his break-up with Gina, he kept redirecting his relationship-nurturing tendencies towards mistake. Big, huge-

"Where's Josh?"

"Haiti. Again."

He winced and glanced at her, couldn't help reaching out and taking her hand. "Go to bed, Kate. I'll clean up your kitchen and make you some soup, order some supplies from the drug store. You'll be-"

"Clean up my kitchen?" she said, eyeballing him.

He gave her a deadpan face. "Beckett. I can see your kitchen from here."

"There's nothing wrong with it."

"No wonder you're sick."

"Shut up."

"I will. The moment you get back in bed."

"I wasn't in bed," she growled. "On the couch." But she was already relenting, heading towards said couch with a shuffling step, her eyes bleary and red. "Trying to catch up on-"

"Oh no, no," he said, plucking the laptop right off her coffee table. "No work. Nope. Zero work allowed. You have pneumonia."

"Pre-"

"Semantics. On the couch, resting. Right now."

Her eyes flicked back to him. "Don't let the power trip go to your head, Castle." And then her teeth caught her lip and she sank very slowly to the couch. "Kinda hot, you ordering me around."

His jaw dropped.

So did hers. "I - have a fever."

She had a fever. That was it.

.

—–


	90. 1 year anniversary

**#113** (episode insert for The Last Seduction, 8X07)

* * *

Three words castle prompt: 1 year anniversary

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

"How'd it go?" he asks her, tucking his phone between his shoulder and ear so his hands are free.

"Esposito's not moving on this one," she sighs.

He locks up his PI office and heads for the elevator, shifting his keys to his inside pocket. "Yeah, I don't think Ryan will either."

"That's not good," Kate mutters over the phone. "Espo seemed - I'm not sure he can forgive this one."

"I told Ryan he had to be honest about it, told him to go for it. But-"

"You think they'll be okay?" she says. Her voice sounds brittle on the phone, subdued.

"Yeah, Kate. I know they will be." He tries to infuse as much confidence in it as he can, sensing that this means more to her than a simple fight between partners. "It might take something big to knock some sense into them though."

"Yeah," she murmurs.

He gets down to the bottom floor and steps off, heading outside. "So we missed dinner," he says hesitantly.

"Yeah."

His throat closes up a moment, wishing she would say more. "It's late," he offers. Hoping.

"It's late," she sighs. "But talking it out with the boys seemed-"

"No, you're right," he reassures her. "Important." He can't say _more_ important, not when every moment with her feels vital to their survival, feels like he won't get another. "It was important."

"I'm sorry we missed our dinner," she says. Quiet. Still.

He doesn't know what she's waiting for, what she's listening for. "Happy anniversary," he offers, willing to wait and listen with her.

"Yeah," she sighs. "Rick?"

"I'm here."

She makes a little noise and he thinks, for a second, his connection has dropped. But then she breathes and says, "I love you."

"I love you too, Kate."

And the call ends.

—–


	91. Castle saves Beckett

**#114**

* * *

Castle saves Beckett

— MYNAMEISJEFFNIMLOST

* * *

Kate Beckett strips her uniform shirt off her sweat-soaked body and flings into into her locker. Next comes the heavy bulletproof vest, her fingers scratching at the velcro to yank it open. She takes her first real breath with the thing still a hard weight on her collarbones, and then she shrugs out of that as well.

Finally.

Her back arches, but as good as that feels, she doesn't have time.

She's already late. The line will be out the door.

Beckett decides to leave the uniform pants and the workman boots, reaches into the depths of her locker for whatever t-shirt is still hanging clean. She finds the soft, NYPD grey but she hesitates.

Too late. All she's got.

Beckett pulls it on over her head and winces as the material tugs on the bobby pins she has to use to keep her hair back. She slits the pin with her nail and drags them out of her hair, one after another, until the short strands around her face fall haphazardly along her ears.

She untangles the rubber band and shakes out her hair, grabs her phone and weapon, and heads for the safety locker. She ejects the clip on her gun and places it inside her numbered slot, then the weapon after it, and she closes the metal door. It locks automatically, and she feels better for that as well, though the gun has grown into an extension of her own hand. She looks forward to being off probation and no longer under her training officer. Doing it herself.

Now for the line out the door.

—–

She realizes, after about five minutes in the back of the line, that she stinks.

Well. Her uniform pants do, for sure, and she thinks she might have stepped in something at that last call, because her boots are sticky. She was being careful, but the man's brains had been splattered everywhere inside that apartment. She should've taken everything off at work.

She smells like grey matter.

The line moves up and she shuffles forward, and sure enough, people are avoiding her. Edging forward.

Great.

Beckett clutches the book closer to her chest and peers ahead, leaning out to see past people. Mostly women have shown up to his book signing, but she missed the reading and she can tell it was intense. Half the women are flirting and flushed, while the other half are the introverts who can't get words out when faced with their favorite author.

Well. Her turn soon enough.

See how well she does.

—–

She's of the tongue-tied variety, though she wished so badly she would do better than this.

Richard Castle beams up at her with a smile that could melt the ice caps, and clicks his pen. "Whom shall I make it out to?"

She blinks and presses the tips of her fingers to the table, clears her throat. She's a police officer; she can do this. "Katie," she says, her own name choking her up.

"Ah, Katie. Very good. Here you are." He dedicates and signs a message with a flourish, something grand and sloping that she can't read upside down. He must see her struggling, because he smiles again, though this time it seems more real, and he gives her the words. "Never forget."

She sucks in a breath, stunned, and he gestures to her t-shirt.

"They're the real heroes, aren't they? The NYPD. I just write books. Seems kind of ridiculous. But at least, I don't know, at least we do what we can to show our support."

She opens her mouth, stands too long staring at him before the words come. "I just graduated. From the Academy."

"Oh. Well, then. Congratulations, Katie. Thank you for all you do to keep us safe. All you _will_ do - thank you."

She takes her book back from him, her mouth not working, her cheeks burning red. She walks away without a word, and only when she gets to the sidewalk outside does she realize what she should have said:

 _It's the least I can do for the man who saved my life._

 _—–_


	92. Beckett, flu, separation

**#115**

* * *

Beckett, flu, separation

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

"This is ridiculous," he splutters. "Just because you're sick."

She shrugs out of his reach and slumps down to the couch, avoiding his every attempt to bundle her up and put her back in their bed.

"Kate," he says. "I have a kid. I've been up close and personal with many more illnesses than I care to remember. Your flu is hardly going to put me off."

"I'm not comfortable all-" She gestures vaguely away - at him? - and then shudders. "I can't do it. I'm not a good patient, Castle."

"You don't have to patient," he quips. "Leave that up to me."

"I'm sure you are," she murmurs, pulling her feet up onto the couch. "And I do appreciate you trying, Rick."

"I hear a _but_ coming."

"But. No."

"Kate," he grumbles, rubbing both hands down his face. It's almost two in the morning and she's banishing herself to the couch. "Come back to bed."

"You go. You'll sleep better without me coughing up a lung anyway."

"No. I won't. I'll be worried about you in here choking on your own phlegm."

She wrinkles her nose but settles deeper into cushions, drawing the blanket up around her shoulders.

" _Kate_."

"This isn't a discussion. I don't like being - trapped. When I'm sick."

"Who's trapped?" he says, indignant. "Sleeping in your own bed, the bathroom right there, your doting husband to take care of you… why don't you just-"

"I feel like shit, Castle, so can you just back off?"

He shuts his mouth, works his jaw, but he has nothing in response to that.

She sighs, but it turns into a rattle, starts the coughing fit all over again. This time worse than the one that propelled up out of the bed and down the hall. He was already banned from touching her, now she's exiling herself from him?

When she can sit up again, her hands pressed to her eyes as if to keep them in her sockets, she croaks his name.

He waits, because he will do anything to comfort her right now, even if it's the exact opposite of what he thinks is right.

"I don't-" She coughs hard and presses the heel of her hand to her sternum, wincing. "I don't do well being sick. I'm not - like you. I can't stand to be touched, can't - do sympathy and people hovering, the constant - I can't. Why do you think I disappeared for three months when I was shot?" She grimaces and rubs her eyes. "It's not pretty."

"I'm just regular old people now?" He flinches even hearing himself say it, holds up both hands when her face loses color and her eyes fly up to his. "No, I - know. I know. I'm… ignore me. You want to be miserable in peace, not have anyone staring at you while you fall apart. Okay. I can - respect that, Kate. I don't _get_ it. But it's your choice."

"You're not just people," she rasps. "It'd be no big deal if you were just people. I don't care what people think. I care what you think."

"I think I love you and I just want to be of some use," he sighs.

She fiddles with the edge of the blanket, then clears her throat with a wince. "You could - get me some water?"

He goes still.

She croaks and has to cough again, and that pushes him into action, sending him around the couch to the kitchen. He fills two glasses with water, because he's overbearing when he's mama-bearing, and yes, he sees it now, what she's trying to avoid, but he still can't help it.

He sets both glasses on the table behind the couch where she can reach them and then he comes back around, sinks down to the cushion near her hip.

"Come get me. For anything," he says, determined to meet her halfway. She's trying, she's asking for his help where she can, and so he'll try too. "Compromise, though, I'll sleep on the couch in my office so I can still hear you."

She grumbles, but he thinks she doesn't intend it to sound petulant - she's just trying to breathe through clogged lungs and raspy throat. She nods briefly and sinks back into the couch, but she wraps her fingers around his knee.

"You know I love you back," she husks.

He nods, combing her hair back from her face, her skin overly warm. "I know. Promise you'll come get me."

"Promise."

He leans in and quickly kisses her forehead, rises to his feet.

He'll endure a forced separation if that's what makes her feel better.

—–


	93. I need you

**#116** (AU Cops and Robbers)

* * *

Three word prompt : I need you.

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

"Tell me you need me."

The world stops.

The phone in her hand is heavy, but her body is light.

"I need you."

Over the line, Castle's breath catches and releases, as if the world on his end stopped too and is finally resumed.

"Yeah?" he says.

"Yeah."

"Even paperwork?"

"Especially paperwork," she murmurs, sinking back in her chair.

"I'm leaving now."

She jerks upright again. "No. Castle. Don't leave your mother in the lurch-"

"She wants to do it on her own anyway. She says I'm looming. I'm coming to you."

"Castle," she whispers.

"Whatever you need me for," he tells her easily. "Nothing - more than you want, Kate."

Her hand is shaking when she scrapes it down her face. "Castle."

"I'm already on the street."

She takes a long breath and presses the phone harder against her ear, as if he can feel it. "Okay," she says finally.

"Excellent," he breathes. "I'm on my way."

She can't wait.

—–


	94. You left us

**#117**

* * *

Three word prompt: You left us

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

"What are you doing here?" Alexis blurts out. "I thought you left us."

Castle turns in horror, but his daughter is bright red and pressing both hands over her mouth.

Kate, still only halfway through the door, hesitates. He snakes out a hand and grabs her by the wrist, heart pounding because she just might leave them. Alexis hurries forward and takes Kate by the shoulders, babbling apologies.

"I didn't mean that like it came out. I'm sorry. I guess - I'm confused?"

She tips back, an arm still twined with Kate's, and Castle tries not to whole-heartedly echo his daughter's sentiment.

He's definitely confused.

But it's Thanksgiving, and she asked him in that roundabout way, and of course he wants her here.

"Smells good," Kate says, still any further inside the loft than the entryway.

Castle tugs on her wrist to bring her towards the living room, and she follows, in a lilac dress with a soft grey jacket that makes her look-

Ah.

Professional, of course. But grown-up hot. CEO executive meets runway model. He thought he was in to the badass leather jackets and tight jeans she rocked for so long, but this is sophistication and elegance and he's just gone.

"So we're not talking about how confusing this is?" Alexis says.

Castle frowns at her, but Kate lets out a kind of laugh. Sort of. Almost. She does hook her arm through his and subtly lean into him, which is reassuring, but she addresses Alexis.

"I'm not sure anything I said would help with that," she admits. "I'm - confused too. I thought this should be a day for family."

It does set Alexis back a little. "Well, Happy Thanksgiving then?"

Kate glances his way and he nods. Her smile is sad, as it has been almost every time he's seen her. Regret heavy, so heavy. "Happy Thanksgiving."

He can work with that. A day for family means she still thinks of herself as his family; she _wants_ to be family.

That's something to be thankful for.

—–


	95. sick cuddle fever

**#118 & #177**

* * *

Three words: sick cuddle fever

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

"No, stay." She curled her fingers around his wrist in a weak grip, her eyes watery. "Please."

"I'm coming back," he promised softly. "Let me just clean this up."

He took the bucket to the guest bathroom, rinsing it out in the tub with a little bleach and cleaner. The fumes made his lungs itch, but he washed his hands then and brought the bucket back downstairs, heading for the couch.

She wasn't quite asleep, but she was getting there. She roused at his approach, lashes untangling, and she held out her hand for him.

He placed the bucket at her side on the floor, and he sank down to an empty spot near her hip. He touched the back of his hand to her forehead and sighed. "Wish you could keep down the tylenol. Feels like you have a fever."

"Be okay," she mumbled. "If I can just lie still." Her hand caught his, drew his arm against her. "Lie here with me?"

"Yeah," he sighed, giving it up. He toed off his shoes as he studied her, the weariness etched into her face, and he wished he could help. More than cleaning out a bucket, silent witness to her stomach flu. "Sit up a little, Beckett."

She did, giving him room on the couch to fit behind her, but when she squirmed down into his arms, he couldn't help pressing his lips to her temple to check her temperature.

Low grade fever, but he still didn't like it.

She drew his arms around her, bundling herself up with him. He let her adjust, her head finally settling at his shoulder, her cheek against the slope of his bicep. Half-reclining, her knees pulled up and tucked into his lap.

"Love you, Kate," he murmured.

"Be better in the morning," she mumbled. Her eyelids drooped.

"Sure you will."

He really didn't think so.

—–

#177

—–

"How you feel?"

She gave him the thousand-yard stare he'd gotten use to the last twenty-four hours.

"Yeah, not better in the morning, huh?"

She closed her eyes again and said nothing.

Castle softly touched her forehead and stroked the errant hair back from her face.

She shifted only slightly, her skin still hot to the touch.

Castle leaned onto the bed, bracing himself with an elbow. "What can I get for you? Water. Can you keep down the Tylenol?"

She made a noncommittal noise and he didn't move from his spot, choosing instead to slide back into bed and stay with her.

Stroking her hair back, he watched the way her throat worked as she swallowed, gearing herself up to talk. After a long moment, her eyes opened again and she wet her lips with her tongue.

"Some water," she whispered.

"Okay, honey, be right back."

Her eyes were dull in the dim light, but she followed his movement as he left the bed, and even when he was at the door, she was watching him leave.

Castle pulled the water pitcher from the fridge and poured her a glass, found one of the many bottles of fever reducers that he'd bought yesterday. When he got back to the bedroom though, she had fallen asleep.

Castle softly set everything down on the bedside table, sat carefully on the mattress by her hip. He laid his hand on her shoulder but she didn't wake.

He reached past her for her phone, had to use her code to access her messages. He texted Esposito _still sick_ and put her phone back.

Her eyelids flickered, opened. She found him there and stared up at him.

He didn't offer words or push the water her direction, he only sat beside her.

She slowly unfolded an arm from her chest and touched his knee with two fingers.

She swallowed.

"Thanks."

He laid his hand lightly over hers. "I'm here."

—–


	96. It Got Stuck

**#119**

* * *

prompt: It Got Stuck

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

If there's one thing he's learned, it's that quiet is never a good sign.

Rick Castle goes hunting through the loft for their son, side-stepping abandoned toys and a week's worth of clean laundry strewn from the basket by little hands. He searches methodically, like a cop, taking it one room at a time and looking under beds, inside closets, behind furniture until he eliminates all possible hiding places and closes the door.

He finds their son, Beckett, in the laundry hamper in their bathroom.

A red Lego in his ear.

Beckett's dark eyes turn up to his father and a warbling cry escapes his down-turned mouth. His shoulders are hunched, his little body sweaty from the close space, and he cries like the melodramatic three year old that he is.

"Beck, what happened here?" Castle says, resting his hands on the edge of the hamper and peering down at his son.

Beckett wails, lifting his arms for his father. "It got stuck!"

"It sure did," Castle chuckles, can't help himself, even as he reaches in and lifts his son out of the basket. "Legos don't go in your orifices, kiddo."

Beckett cries harder, sobbing into Castle's neck, and Rick lifts a hand and lightly touches the tiny one-peg Lego.

Of course, his fingers are too big to get it out, and he's afraid that if he keeps digging for it, the Lego will only be driven deeper. Doesn't help that Beckett is nearly in fits he's crying so hard.

"Beckett, hush, hush. You're only making it worse. Come on, buddy." He bounces the toddler very gently in his arms, swaying a little to try and calm him. "There we go, that's it. Daddy's got you and we're going to get it out. Don't worry."

Beckett's scared cries taper off, hiccups escaping, Castle's shirt damp. He carries the boy into the bathroom and sets him on the counter, flips on the overhead light so he can see.

"I want Mommy," Beckett cries, turning a watery, sorrowed face to his father. "I want Mommy. Call Mommy."

"You know what?" Castle tells him, tapping his nose. "That's a really good idea. Her fingers are smaller. And. Mommy did the same thing when she was a kid. Only hers got stuck in her nose."

Beckett brightens - either at the story or at the promise of calling his mother. "Mommy stuck too?"

"Mommy got a Lego stuck, yup. She did. Here, let's call her. I'll even let you do it." Castle holds out his unlocked phone, watches in that mild amazement as his three year old manipulates the technology better than he would. In seconds, they're calling Kate at the precinct, waiting for her to answer.

Beck puts it on speaker, just like Castle usually does, and then rubs both hands over his tear-soaked eyes, sniffling. Castle still holds his phone, but he raises a hand and smooths back the boy's hair, soothing him.

"Hey, Rick," her voice comes from the phone. "What's up?"

"Mommy," Beck mourns. "Mommy I did too!"

"Hey, baby, you did what?"

"It got stuck," Beckett cries.

Castle leans in, cupping the back of his son's head. "Well, Kate, he's a chip off the old block," he chimes in.

"Wait, what?"

"Beck got a Lego stuck in his ear. We need you to come home and fish it out with your skinny fingers."

—–


	97. Thanksgiving, sick, soup

**#120** (season 8 spoilers - through Mr. & Mrs. Castle)

* * *

Thanksgiving, sick, soup

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

Kate winces when her key clicks loudly in the lock, tumblers falling over like a gunshot. She turns the knob and opens the door, steps inside as quietly as she can.

It's dark, lit only by the gas logs in the fireplace and the blue detail light of the wine fridge.

She closes the door behind her, pocketing her key, and slides her shoes off. Her toes pop on the hardwood floor as she moves down the hallway, her breathing and the wind outside the windows the only things she hears.

She stops before the open bedroom door, leans against the doorframe for a moment, taking him in.

Poor Castle.

Slumped on his side in the messy bed, his mouth open, hair flattened, a fist under his chin like a child.

The crinkle of the bag must rouse him, because his eyes drag open when she steps inside.

Castle grunts at seeing her. "Supposed to be - keeping low profile," he gets out.

"I was very careful," she tells him.

"Not supposed to be here."

"It's Thanksgiving. And you're sick." That's all the reason. And even though it's dangerous, even though her heart pounds every time she shows up here, he keeps convincing her that everything is going to be fine.

Like he's magic or something.

"Who told you?"

She shakes her head, won't divulge her source.

"I told Alexis not-"

"Wasn't Alexis," she says softly, getting into bed with him now.

"Ka-ate," he whines.

"You're sick," she says again. "I brought you soup. You didn't even do Thanksgiving dinner?"

"Tried," he rasps. He sounds awful. He looks wiped. "Couldn't stay awake. They left."

She balances the take-out bag on her nightstand and turns back to him, but Castle has already moved.

He drapes his torso in her lap and presses his face to her thighs, arms tunneling around her and holding her tightly.

She lays both hands to the broad stretch of his shoulders, scratching his back through his grey t-shirt. He lets out a noise like - she can't pinpoint what it is exactly, maybe relief, maybe giving in to how badly he feels, maybe just exhaustion.

"You brought me soup," he says, chest rumbling. "I should-"

"It'll re-heat," she tells him, pressing him back down with her hands. She cups the back of his head and combs through the soft, short hair there and it does the trick.

Castle collapses back on top of her, sighing hard and melting into her touch.

"Rest," she murmurs.

"You'll stay?"

"I'm staying."

—–


	98. 2x18, he looked

**#121**

* * *

2x18, he looked

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

"Castle! Don't look."

He turned his head and held out his coat, but the _towels_ were on fire, her living room still roaring with flames, and his eyes snapped back to her.

She had her back turned to him, her arms sliding through the sleeves of his coat, and her body was absolutely breath-taking.

It could be the smoke filling the apartment, the heat tightening his lungs, but she was stunning. Milky white skin marred only by the abrasions that skimmed her shoulder blades, and the fine coating of ash and debris-

He closed his eyes, fists tightening in the coat until he felt her take it from him. All of this because he wrote Nikki Heat. She had almost died.

"Castle."

His eyes popped open.

Beckett had dragged the coat around her body and turned, and he was quick to grab her hand, wrap his other arm around her shoulder. She stumbled out of the tub, hopped awkwardly on one foot, and fell in against him.

"I know you looked."

"Not - everything."

"Killing you, isn't it?"

His throat closed up.

"You just can't wait to tell me how you - how you knocked down the door." She said it with all the normal snark, but it fell flat as she hobbled over the flame-scorched floor.

He wished-

so much.

But what he did was adopt her gallows humor and practically drag her out of her still burning apartment.

—–


	99. Kate loses it

**#121**

* * *

Kate loses it (what ever interpretation you like)

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

When Castle stirred from a long writing bout and came out of the office looking for sustenance, he instead found Kate on her hands and knees on the living room floor.

"Uh. Kate. Lost your marbles?" he said, snickering at his own joke.

She lifted her head, hair falling into her eyes. "No. My _ring_."

"Wait. What?"

"I lost it," she grimaced. "I took it off to do the last of the dishes from Thanksgiving, and now I-"

"And you're looking for it on the living room floor?" he said incredulously.

"It's possible it rolled."

"From… the counter?"

She huffed. "Or - something like that."

"Kate."

"Castle." She growled his name, her eyes flashing.

"I want to know how your ring managed to roll all the way to the rug in the living room when-"

"Would you stop being insufferable and just help me look?"

"I can help you look, but I'm afraid I'll stay insufferable."

She gave him a measuring look, as if she had to weigh that in the balance. He waited, hands spread in offering, on her word.

"Fine," she sighed. "Anything to find my ring."

He knelt down beside her and circled his fingers around her wrist before she could move on. "I can get you a new one," he said, shrugging. "Just a band of gold-"

"No, Castle, my-" She hunched her shoulders and suddenly pitched forward into him. "It's my diamond. I want _my_ diamond back."

"You were wearing your engagement ring?" he croaked.

She nodded into his shoulder.

"Okay. We'll find it. It's huge. Should be easy."

She gave a faintly watery laugh and lifted her head. "It is huge. You're right."

"Don't worry. We got this. Not a couple of detectives for nothing."

—–


	100. I'm fine here

**#123**

* * *

"I'm fine here"

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

"No, really. Don't help me. I'm fine here."

Kate presses her lips together and tilts her head to better see her husband. "So, um, what exactly are you doing there, Rick?"

"Obviously, I'm fixing the pipes."

"Fixing seems a loose term for it."

He raises to make a defense, hitting his head on the underside of the cabinet instead, yelping and holding his forehead. She tries not to laugh, she really does, but he's always made her smile and Castle deluding himself into thinking he's a handyman is part of it.

But she does offer him her hand. "Come on, big guy, not sure you really fit under there."

"Ooh, that's what you said-"

"No, it's not," she said clearly, kicking at his shin where his legs are sprawled out along the kitchen floor. "What I said last night was, _Go ahead, let's see if it works."_

Castle grins, and even in the crazy shadows under the sink cabinet, she can tell exactly what he's about to do-

But not in time.

She goes tumbling into him as he yanks, manages to land on top of him, barely avoiding smashing her cheek into the cabinet door. Castle's chest rumbles something sexy or dirty or both, and she lifts her head to glare at him.

But he really is kind of sexy and dirty both, all rangy man under the sink like he can fix things. "You're lucky you're so damn charming," she tells him.

And then she leans in and gives him a kiss reminiscent of last night.

—–


	101. Beckett meets Lucy

**#124** (season 8 spoilers)

* * *

Prompt: Beckett meets Lucy

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

"Welcome home, Kate!"

She spins, pulling her weapon only to have Castle catch her wrist with a breathless chuckle in her ear. He's pressed against her back, her heart rate is sky-rocketing, and he's laughing.

"No, wait, sorry. It's an interactive home system."

"Home what?" she gasps. Her hands are shaking, palms sweating. Her worst nightmares just flared to life with a stranger's voice in their home, and he's laughing at her.

"A computer, Kate. It's just a computer."

She feels his fingers caressing her wrist and she stumbles, coming down from red alert. "A computer."

"Say hello, Kate."

"Hello, Kate!" the thing chirps.

She gives a strangled laugh, holstering her weapon, as she watches Castle walk towards the dining room table. A black pyramid with a blue glow sits at the head of the table, but she still has to hide her shaking hands.

Coming home with him was a good idea, it was. She won't take that back. It's just her anxiety talking.

So she steps towards them - _him_ , and the device - and she tries.

"Hello, uh-" She looks to Castle.

"Lucy, this is Kate. Kate. Lucy."

"Hi, Lucy," she says tentatively.

"Kate," the thing answers, almost warmly. The voice sounds vaguely familiar, but she can't place it. "Happy to have you back. He's missed you. He's been what they call mournful-"

"Okay, that's enough out of you," Castle grumbles, reaching in to switch it off. He turns back to her and gives her a too-wide grin, beaming, and takes her hands. "Come on. We have lots of nights to make up for."

"Didn't we do all that yesterday?" she murmurs, casting a last look at the black pyramid as he leads her towards the bedroom. That thing definitely wasn't on then. "The naked punishing-"

"No more punishing. Just celebrating."

"Naked celebrating," she offers.

His grin is her only answer, but she knows.

When he's asleep, she's coming back out to the dining room and interrogating Lucy. She wants to know exactly what the little device means by _mournful._

And that is what she'll make up to him.

—–


	102. you love me?

**#126** (alternate season 4x01 Rise)

* * *

you love me? three words

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

Josh storms out of the hospital room, knocking into Castle's shoulder as he goes. Completely unrepentant and entirely rude. But that's fine, it's fine, because _she_ is fine. She's going to be fine.

Castle hesitates only a moment, ducking to check his reflection in the sheen of the overhead lights. He looks as jittery and exhausted as he feels. The flowers are too garish, too vibrant, but he has nothing else.

He has nothing else.

Castle opens the door and takes a tight breath, hoping for courage.

Her head turns - slowly - as he walks in.

She's washed out. Too careful, the way she holds herself, sitting upright in the hospital bed. Her skin so pale it looks like parchment.

"Castle," she says, his name an undertone from her thinning lips. Thinning into a smile.

God.

That smile.

"Hi," he says inanely. "Hey. Beckett." He holds up the bouquet, and she lifts two fingers from the blanket, gesturing towards the table.

He adds it to her bedside, feeling inadequate, awkward.

"Sit. Castle."

He jerks his eyes back to her and sinks to the chair without even looking, nearly missing it. Her eyes are so darkly luminous that it steals his breath.

"Hey," she says. Her lashes close and open again, a heartbeat.

"How - are you feeling?" he asks, leaning in so that his elbows are on his knees. "Do you remember what happened? The nurse said you were asking questions."

"I have… questions."

"I'll do my best," he promises, straightening up again, looking smart. He's _anxious,_ and he realizes it's selfish of him, wanting to know where she stands when she can't stand at all.

Castle lets out a breath, scrubs a hand down his face.

"I should let you get some rest," he murmurs.

"You promised. To answer questions." Her voice is like water over gravel, rough but beautiful.

"I will," he says quickly. "But you should rest. I can tell you the story instead. How about that? You lie there, you rest. I'll talk."

Her fingers lift from the bed, her eyes so dark on him, so very dark and so very _alive_.

"Not yet," she says. Her lids fall, lashes lacing together, delicate and dark like bird's wings. And then part, each lash separating, and those eyes are on him again.

Hungry, absorbing all light.

"Not yet?"

"Answer," she murmurs, her throat working. She looks like she's going to fade at any moment. "One question for me, Castle."

He leans forward, his hand coming to the side of the bed, arrested. "Anything."

She sighs and her head tilts towards him, her fingers lifting and tracing the line of his thumb.

"You love me?"

Everything sobers. Stops. Her eyes are heavy and dark on his.

"Yes."

Her lashes fall. Her hand rests just beside his.

Her breathing seems easier.

She's asleep.

—–


	103. I forgive you

**#129**

* * *

I forgive you.

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

"I can't believe you!"

He gapes, no words at hand to mitigate this disaster.

"Castle," she hisses. "You just spoiled the _whole_ season!"

"Not the whole season," he yelps, but he can already hear how that sounds. What a weak excuse it is. "That happens in the third episode. Or so. I mean, really, Kate, why haven't you seen it yet?"

"I can't keep up with it real time," she grumbles, elbowing his side as she sinks down with popcorn. "What are we even _watching_ this for if he dies?"

He tries to steal a handful from the bowl but she knocks him away. He scowls at her. "It's Game of Thrones. Everyone dies."

"Seriously, this is the worst."

"But you _wanted_ him to die."

"I didn't want to be spoiled," she mutters, squirming again as he goes in for popcorn. "You need to make this up to me."

"But you are going to watch season four with me, right?"

"Are you going to make it up to me?" she growls, holding the popcorn hostage.

Castle reaches in and snags her hips, yanking her into him so that the bowl hits his chest, held between them. Her eyes dilate, her lashes framing all that gorgeous lust.

"I can mostly definitely make it up to you. Right now, if you like, and I'll narrate the whole story against your-"

"Better not be narrating murder and incest against anything of mine." She grips the back of his neck and he can see the way she studies him, searching for the best way to get him horizontal.

"I'll make it a better story, promise," he murmurs.

"Then I forgive you," she hums, and pushes the popcorn aside.

Crawls into his lap.

"Let's see how forgiving you can be," he growls.

—–


	104. life with you

**#130**

* * *

life with you

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

Rick carries his sleepy son into the bedroom and finds Kate still in her dress, though the heels have gone.

"Hey," she whispers, turning as she catches sight of them. She steps close and dusts a kiss over their son's head. "Why are you still awake?"

"Momma."

"I think he was waiting up for us," Rick murmurs, shifting the boy in his arms. "Mother says good-night."

"Oh, I missed her?"

"Mm, it's fine." He kisses her neck where she's still bent over the boy. "You willing to have company for a little while?"

"Not entirely," she jokes, lifting an eyebrow. But she reaches in and takes the boy from his arms, kissing his cheeks. "For just a little while."

"Finish changing," he tells her. "I'll tell stories and hope he falls asleep."

"Momma," the boy whines, most likely knowing his father is going to take him from her. "Momma-"

"In a minute, sweetheart. Let me get out of this dress."

Castle takes his son back and despite the dress pants and starched shirt, he carries the boy to the bed, settling in with him. "Mommy won a very special award tonight. Doesn't she look so strong and pretty?"

"Momma." A fist goes in his mouth and he whines, so tired.

"I know. Mommy is best. Daddy is second rate."

"Not so," Kate calls back from the closet. "Daddy is awesome. Isn't he?"

The boy giggles and turns into Castle's shoulder, but he gives a great big sigh.

"Once upon a time," he murmurs, mouth against the top of his son's head. "There was a scary detective named Beckett, and she-"

"Don't start our story like that," she hisses, taking their son up in her arms. She holds him at one hip, slouchy shirt and pajama bottoms a vast change from that slinky, impressive dress.

And yet she still looks so beautiful. And strong.

"Your turn to change clothes," she tells him, nudging his hip with a knee. She climbs into bed and sinks down, cradling the baby against her. "And now it's _my_ turn to tell the story. The right way. Ready, sweetheart?"

Castle chuckles but he heads for the dresser, unbuttoning his cuffs and pulling out the cufflinks she bought for him. He can hear her whispering to the boy, though he can't hear what exactly, and when he turns his head to look, their son is giggling and playing with her hair.

"Don't think that's exactly working," he says, lifting an eyebrow. He _does_ want to have the bed to themselves at some point tonight.

"What?" she says innocently, rocking a little. "All I told him was the truth."

"I have no doubt. But what exactly," he says, pulling his shirt tails out of his pants and unbuttoning his way up.

"Nothing bad. Nothing outrageous either." She smirks as he pulls off his pants and drapes them over the chair. Her eyebrows dance as he heads into the closet.

He can hear her whispering to the boy again, and he shucks his shirt, gets into a t-shirt as quickly as he can. When he comes back to the bed, their son is laughing, full-bellied, his face beaming with joy.

"What did you say?" Rick huffs, crawling into bed with them.

Kate just grins, leaning in and kissing his mouth, warm and sweet.

"Just. Life with you, Castle. My life with you."

—–


	105. An exhausted lover

**132**

* * *

 _3\. An exhausted lover_

 _— AWESOMEBAZAN27_

* * *

Kate pads softly through the living room, snaking on her robe and tying the belt. The kitchen is dark, quiet in the winter night, and her skin ripples with goose bumps when she opens the fridge.

She collects leftover Christmas ham in the cool whip container, the cheese potatoes in their tupperware, and the fruit salad that's still in the crystal serving dish. She makes a plate, licking cheese potatoes from her fingers, and sticks it in the microwave with a paper towel covering the food. A minute, two? She tries a minute and sinks back against the counter, picking strawberries from the fruit salad and popping them into her mouth.

She can see the stars from the window - lighted Christmas stars in the windows of the apartment building across the street. A multi-colored tinsel tree in a neighbor's living room, the curtains drawn back so everything is on display. It's not really dark outside, with the neighbors so close and the city that never sleeps, but the loft is so high up that sometimes it's like living separate from the world.

A tower in a castle.

She snorts at herself even as the microwave dings, and she opens the door, sliding the plate out. She whips off the paper towel, adds a heap of fruit salad to the still-hot plate, and grabs a fork.

She carries everything back to the bedroom and stands in the doorway, smirking, studying him.

He's still sprawled on his back on the floor, half of the comforter dragged from the bed and tangled around one of his legs. Hair spiky. One hand on his chest and rising with his breath.

"You're back," he rumbles.

"I told you I was getting you sustenance."

"I thought you might have perished out there in the wilds."

She chuckles and comes to sit beside his hip, sinking down so she's cross-legged, the plate across her forearms. And hot. Ouch. Hot.

"What'd you bring me?" he whines.

"Ham, cheese potatoes, and fruit salad."

"Fruit salad?"

"That's really for me. And the ham. Come on, lover, sit up. I'm not feeding you by hand."

"Why not?"

"You'll choke."

"Party pooper," he grumbles, but he groans and shifts upright, leaning hard against the side of the bed. He swallows and scrubs a hand down his face, blinking as he stares at her.

He looks scrumptious, forget about fruit salad.

He grabs the plate and puts it aside, drags her into his lap.

Yeah. Totally forget about fruit salad.

—–


	106. Black, Beckett, babies

**#133** (Spy Trauma Universe, an AU of an AU of Spy Castle)

* * *

 _Black, Beckett, babies. :-/ A proper three-word prompt for your series_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

 **WARNING:** This is **triggery BEYOND belief**. I don't know why my mind went to such terrible places, it's all cartographicalconspiracy's fault.

Abortion, non-consensual breeding, suggestions of potential rape, restraints, kidnapping, medical procedures, lost babies, murder, blood and gore, and evil mad scientists abound.

This is a few scenes of the set-up to Kate Beckett escaping from John Black, who has held her in captivity in his 'super soldier' program. (What is WRONG with me).

* * *

She woke once, just in time to hear him say, _well, let's clean her out_. And she knew the pregnancy was done, it was over, the first part of her plan had worked, and she slipped back under.

–

She woke on a scream.

John Black held her down.

Kate gasped through awareness and went still, her heart thundering so that her whole body shook. Her guts felt rearranged.

"We had to D&C you," Black said. His voice was laced with cold disgust. "Spontaneous abortion."

"What a fucking excellent bedside manner," she snarled. But, _God_ , her heart was stone. Why had it been so easy to snake that wire up inside her body and scrape and scrape until the blood was thick?

The twins-

"Are you crying?" he harshed.

She glared at him.

"You did this," he said, his voice steady, cold. As always. "It's only your own fault."

 _It was my fault_ , she thought triumphantly. _I did this. I lured you here, right here, for this very purpose._

"Next time, Katherine, you'll have to work harder. You have been given a very special gift. The gift of life. You should be more appreciative of all I've done for you. Dick Coonan would have raped you blind."

At the name of her mother's killer, she stiffened.

"He would have made it hurt. Quite badly. But I took you away from him. I rescued you. And you have done so well."

"I feel like shit," she said, trying to play it up. "Can't you just leave me alone."

"You'll be groggy for a while yet, I'm sure," he said, patting her hand. He was so close. She hoped they hadn't searched the bed. Why would they? They always did the procedures and brought her back here to sleep it off.

"You can't do that to me again," she said, her voice toneless. "You impregnate me again and they'll die too. And so will I."

"Because your scientific knowledge of the program is so vast and-"

"I don't feel like shit because of the anesthesia, you fucking _prick_. I feel like shit because I _feel like shit_. Those shots are - are killing me."

He smiled. Her heart went cold, ice in her veins. She fumbled at the side of the hospital-issue bed, slipping her fingers under the fitted sheet right at the metal railing. The restraints dug into her wrists.

"I won't kill you yet, Katherine. Trust me. I've been doing this for a long time. I know just how much you can take."

She thumped her head back into the pillow in frustration, but it was all too real. Not for show. She could feel the edge of the scalpel blade but she couldn't quite contort her hand to get far enough.

The velcro restraints weren't in the same place as last time. Fucking hell.

"It's the - nursing," she stumbled out. Just keep the conversation going. Give him enough of an argument to feel he had to prove himself. He liked nothing better than making her feel small.

"The nursing."

"The breast milk has to be - enriched. Don't think I don't know what you're doing to me. But enriching it for them means you're fucking _killing_ me. It's too much. I feel like I did at the beginning of the trials."

"You only died twice," he said, lips twitching. He loved this. He _loved_ seeing her bound and begging.

"I died _twice_. You need me for those fucking babies. You need me to feed them - for now at least. But if you keep pumping me full of that damn elixir, it will kill me. My - my heart isn't right."

Some faint hint of alarm crossed his eyes. And then he narrowed them. "We've seen no evidence of distress."

"Skips beats," she said. "Stops at night when - when I'm asleep. So I wake up - wake when it kicks back into gear."

"You can't possibly know that."

"Put a fucking heart monitor on me." She wasn't entirely making it up. If she could just twist her damn arm a few inches further, she could get the scalpel she'd hidden there during the last trial.

"Perhaps we will keep a closer eye on your blood pressure as well. You're - quite flushed, Katherine."

His hand came out and touched the side of her neck; she froze for an instant, that instinctive shutdown of prey caught out in a field.

And then her fingernail caught the edge of the scalpel and the blade sliced up into the flesh, between her nail and her finger, and pain _seared_ through her - but she had it.

She moved slowly to pull out the blade.

"You feel feverish. I'll have the lab guy come in and check you out. Don't need a blood infection on top of this. Your womb walls were quite a mess, Katherine. The doctor said we'd have to wait a good eight weeks before we have another go."

Eight weeks. No fucking way.

She had the handle of the scalpel now and she worked it across the velcro restraint, sawing.

Eight weeks. "Can it be girls this time?" she said.

He laughed. He actually _laughed._ She was going to slit his throat. She was going to carve her name into his _face_ and then she was going to laugh.

"Ah, Katherine, what good are girls?"

"Well, you've found a use for _me_ ," she snapped back.

He smiled that cold as a snake smile, and his fingers squeezed lightly at her neck. She swallowed hard and his smile grew, and then he slowly released his hold on her.

And that's when the blade sawed through the restraint.

Before Black could catch on, Kate swung her arm around and buried the scalpel into the side of his neck. His blood spurted black and thick across the bedding, over her chest and face, and he gurgled obscenely, clutching at his throat.

She yanked the scalpel out and jabbed it in again, hacking at his neck to widen the wound, to make the blood gush out between his fingers. He screamed through the blood swelling in his throat and she lifted the scalpel again and the rage was a fist that came down, came down, the blade piercing his eyeball and pinning it to the back of his orbital socket.

Black screamed thickly and jerked, but she kept hold of the scalpel and it was a gruesome tug of war, his body arching in a rictus of pain and death and Kate desperately hanging on to the slick blade.

She had to keep the weapon. Had to. She had to-

Black crumpled and she yanked it out of him, clutched the scalpel against her chest, still half restrained in the hospital bed.

It had taken less than five minutes.

But she had done it.

Kate slowly brought the scalpel to the restraints on her other wrist, began sawing through the velcro, her mind blank. Sawing and sawing until she realized-

She placed the scalpel on the mattress beside her hip and instead reached over and yanked the velcro off, separating the strips and freeing her left hand.

Stupid.

She had to think; she absolutely could not afford to go into shock.

She had to _think_. It wasn't over yet.

There was still work to be done.

She had to get to her sons.

—–


	107. Wanna play doctor

**134**

* * *

 _Wanna play doctor? 3 word prompt_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

He comes barreling into her at the front door, pulling her bag from her fingers and dragging her coat half-off her shoulder. "Hey! Hi, you're home."

"I - yes," she stutters, bewildered by the force of his enthusiasm, but a little turned on too. How he's a whirlwind all of his own, catching her up in him. She lets go of her bag, lets him spin her out of her coat, ignores the way he tosses them to a chair without hanging up or putting away.

"You're not on call, right?"

"Nope," she says, grinning into his grin, feeling her heart clutch. Begin to race. She laces her fingers with his and steps into him, heat building, her eyes entranced by the play of muscle at his jaw.

"Perfect, oh perfect. I have the best - Sunday night in - it's gonna be great. I already ordered dinner, and now you're here. Hey, Beckett-"

His voice has dropped into that suggestive, lovely, raw tone that makes her shudder.

"Yes?" she breathes.

"Wanna play doctor?"

She grins, lips spreading wide as she traces her eyes over his eager face. "I could be persuaded," she murmurs.

"Oh, goodie, come on." He yanks on their clasped hands and drags her through the living room to his office.

Oh, she _loves_ playing in his office.

She follows eagerly, a little thrown when she sees him powering up the wall-mounted flat screen television, still working at the buttons of her shirt.

Castle turns with the remote in his hand and gestures to the bedroom. "Yes, good idea. Get comfy clothes on. Hurry, Beckett. About to start."

She falters at the doorway, shirt almost completely off, and she glances back at him. "About to-"

She sees the television display behind him, hears the particular whining and eerie song of the opening credits, and then that swirl of lightning in a storm, a blue box bouncing through time and space.

Oh. _That_ doctor.

Doctor Who.

Well, he's always so much more happy when she watches his shows with him. She can work that to her advantage tonight.

By the time their Chinese food gets here, she'll have him right where she wants him.

Doctor or no Doctor.

—–


	108. Sssshhhh Crawl in

**#136** (Spy Castle Universe)

* * *

Sssshhhh. Crawl in.

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

"What's going on in here?" he said, leaning against the doorway and narrowing his eyes at the two of them in bed. "James, you took my spot."

"Shh," she murmured, soft and quiet and completely unlike his spy wife. "Crawl in, love. There's room."

He was still wearing his suit from the Office, the tie loose but around his neck, though his feet were bare. He'd taken Sasha out and of course the dog had wanted to roam the back yard to the limits of Castle's patience. Now she came trotting through the bedroom and jumped up to the bed, as if to taunt him.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered, dragging his tie out from the collar, unbuttoning the next two on his shirt.

She hushed him again, her hands over the boy's ear and neck, as if to shield him.

"He's used to it," Castle said, tossing his tie of the chair and unbuttoning his cuffs. "We wake him at all hours. Don't try to deny it."

Her lips twitched, but she 'ignored' him to card her fingers through the dog's fur. Ignored, right. She was watching every move he made - stripping the shirt over his head and dropping his pants. He wriggled his eyebrows at her, but she rubbed slow circles over James's back and brushed the hair back from his forehead. "He sleeps like you," she murmured. "Deep. Full. Anywhere he can."

He pulled on a t-shirt, watching them, found his pajama pants without taking his eyes off them. Their two year old was adept at snatching sleep when he could, and since Castle hadn't been the one to pick him up from his grandfather's, the boy had probably been waiting up for him.

"Come on, Rick."

He nodded, putting a knee into the mattress and crawling into bed with them. He shoved on the dog and made himself room beside Kate, taking the boy out of her arms. She released him and curled into Castle's side, stroking two fingers along James's spine.

"At least he's in pjs," Castle said, tugging the shirt down. "And I think your dad must have given him a bath. He smells like baby shampoo."

"He does," Kate smiled. She curled around them at the headboard, kissed James's cheek. And then she touched her lips to the corner of his mouth, breathing softly, before she laid her head at his shoulder.

He gave in to it, gave up trying to enforce bedtime rules or any rules at all. They didn't work very well with rules, not in their household. If Kate needed to cuddle with their son, well, he was just grateful he was included.

"Stop sighing, you bully," she murmured, sounding sleepy. "You know you love it."

"Yeah," he whispered, kissing the top of her head. "Yeah, I love you. And him. So I guess I do."

—–


	109. Castle and Beckett, love at first read

**#137** (season 8 spoilers)

* * *

Prompt: Castle and Beckett

— ANONYMOUS

Also this prompt: "When did you first realize you loved me?"

— Einav

* * *

"That's kind of a strange question," she hums, nudging his chest with the back of her hand.

They're lying out on the grass at her father's cabin, the twilight long faded. Crickets and bull frogs, the saw of cicadas, the sounds of the night in harmony to the lapping of waves on the lake.

He catches her hand and kisses her knuckles. "Why strange?"

"Does it matter now?"

"Matter? I just want the story, Beckett."

She laughs a little, surprised to have him call her that after so long, and she shifts her hips on the grass. "I guess that makes sense."

"So."

"So?" she says, her voice barely rising above the darkness.

"Story time." He plays with her fingers and brushes a caress down the inside of her arm. "You're holding out on purpose."

"You say it like I was in love with you all along and only figured it out-"

"Right. Exactly. When did you _know,_ Beckett?"

She rolls over onto her side, her body pressing against his, hips at his thigh. He's watching the sky, but he's mostly watching her, and she knows it.

"I knew…" She strokes her fingers along his sternum and up to his clavicles, playing at all the spots that make him squirm. "When I held our son in my arms."

He huffs, and she thumbs his bottom lip, quieting him.

"I knew yesterday when you reached down and hauled me out of the lake after you tossed me in."

His chest rumbles with amusement under her. She scratches lightly at his chin and lifts to kiss the spot.

"I knew when you told me we should just get married, no matter, we should run away and do it."

His sigh is content, and his fingers start brushing along the waist of her jeans, cool at her skin.

"I knew when you brought our daughter into the room and said _happy birthday, mommy_ and she was so proud of making me breakfast in bed."

"When - which year was that?"

"All the years of her life," she whispers, kissing him softly again. "All the years of our life together."

"I love you," he says. The stars illuminate his face.

"I have loved you since the day I read your books, Rick Castle, because those books gave me hope." She strokes two fingers at his moon-soaked cheek. "And we hadn't even met."

—–


	110. Kate Pregnant Accident

**#138**

* * *

3 word prompt: Kate. Pregnant. Accident

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

"Oh my God. What did you _do_?"

"Me?"

"Us. I mean. Shit. Sorry, Castle. But - _God_. You knocked me up."

" _We_. Knocked you up. I - wow. I knocked you up."

"Don't _smile_."

"I'm sorry what should I be doing?"

"Figuring out how to _fix_ this."

"Uh… fix. This. Fix?"

"No - don't look at me like that. I don't mean - that's not what I meant!"

"Maybe you should enlighten me, Kate, before I jump to conclusions-"

"Don't judge me. This is _such_ terrible timing. I can't be pregnant."

"Except this little stick here says you are."

"This isn't a good time for me."

"Well, that's very considerate of you, thinking only of yourself-"

"I'm not saying I'm - holy shit, Castle, chill. Would you? We have two kids who run us ragged, we're both workaholics - and you at _my_ job - and all I'm saying is that this is really inconvenient right now."

"Fine."

" _Fine_."

"… But I really love you, Kate, and I love our family, and now we have one more little sweet baby to love-"

"Sweet - ha! If he's anything like his brothers, he'll be a holy terror. And you know it, because you spoil them rotten."

"Come here-"

"I'm already here."

"Kiss me."

"Un-knock me up."

"Too late, honey."

"I'm forty-four, Castle. You better make this worth my while."

"I bet it's a girl."

"Ohhhh, you _better_ give me a girl. Castle, I want a girl."

"Do my best."

—–


	111. Broken bones heal

**#140** (alternate version of the events leading up to Castle making that video in Montreal)

* * *

 _Broken bones heal_

 _— AWESOMEBAZAN27_

* * *

He pulled his shirt up in the mirror, traced the edge of the scar across his hip bone with his fingers. Swallowed hard as it burned, the edges not yet pulled together.

"Don't touch it."

Castle dropped his hand but stubbornly wouldn't look at the man who had barked at him. Who had been barking at him - and snapping and pushing and demanding and a pain in the ass for the last two weeks.

The man who had _shot_ him.

"You keep touching it, get infected," the man said gruffly, shoving Castle aside from the grimy mirror. "At least it's not a broken hip."

"That's your purview, isn't it?" Castle smart-mouthed.

His father leveled him with a long look, and maybe two weeks ago, Castle would've been cowed. But not today.

He was sick and tired of being away from Kate.

Kate who he had been about to _marry_. Finally. And now-

"Ah," he hissed, spine jerking as the needle went through his skin.

"I said don't touch it," his father said, batting his hands away where he'd involuntarily tried to protect himself from the pain.

Castle gripped the edge of the gas station sink and gritted his teeth. But he watched the man stitch up his side, the flesh closing together, the blood still weeping from the wound.

Not safe yet. Not even from his own father.

He really wished Kate was-

No.

No, he didn't.

He wished he was _there_. Watching her walk down the aisle. Saying his vows. On that island for their honeymoon, just the two of them.

He didn't want this life, nasty gas station bathrooms and a man who clearly had no respect for him, dodging bullets only to be shot by his own father when he tried to-

Whatever it took, Castle would do it. Whatever it took to track down the guys after Jackson Hunt so that Castle was free and clear once more.

Free and clear for her.

—–


	112. Reese's Pieces Candy

**#141** (Unvanquished Universe)

* * *

 _Reese's Pieces Candy_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

"Your dad sent a care package," Castle told her, coming through wide main hall and into the kitchen. There were so many mirrors in the Versailles place; he could never get used to the way the light bounced and caromed off the sharp edges.

She turned slowly, all the light he couldn't see trapped in her eyes. "How?" she husked. She had not yet gotten back to full strength and sometimes when she was rundown, her voice broke.

Made the baby laugh, hearing her. "Hey, Scout," he called to his little girl, settling the awkwardly shaped box on the marble counter. "Reese, you being good for mommy?"

"She's fine, we're fine," Kate said, impatience now pitching her voice up and down. She huffed and cleared her throat even though they both knew it wouldn't help. "She has a very narrow range to run. But what about the _package_?"

"She's - wait. Running? Reese started running? When-"

"How did you get a package from my Dad?" Kate insisted, overriding him to unfold herself from the baby's grip and stand. Unmoored, Reese wobbled on her feet and then went running for him.

His joy burst the seams, and Castle swooped her up off the wood floor, making much of her milestone. Kate was close to murderous, cooped up as she'd been for so long now; the chest cold that had fallen on her when they'd reached Versailles had taken up residence with them in their new place. Even Castle and the baby had gone through it and come back out again, though Kate's lingered.

But he grinned a secret into his baby daughter's laughing, demanding excitement, and he kissed her cheeks and her chubby neck, kissed her until she screeched and arched herself backwards.

Always good to catch the baby before she came right out of his arms.

" _Castle,"_ Kate hissed, a name they'd both agreed they had to keep between them. "What about my _dad?"_

"Alexis," he said, and then his lips twitched, and he raised his voice. "Alexis. Wanna come inside?"

Kate's face went white, and wild, and she shoved past him for the wide entryway.

"And bring our guest," Castle finished, turning with Reese in his arms as he did.

Alexis stepped over the threshold, her red hair like a flame leading Jim Beckett inside the apartment.

"Oh, my God," Kate gasped. But her eyes came first to _him_ , Castle, and she took two steps back to fling an arm around him, roughly kissing his cheek - a glance of lips for the baby - before she hurried to her father.

Jim laughed as he embraced her, hard enough to make Castle wince for the pressure it did to her lungs. But her father was quick to ease up, though he didn't let her go.

"Dad, Dad," she was murmuring. "What are you doing here?"

"I thought I'd bring the baby her namesake," Jim chuckled. "Since you can't get Reese's Pieces over here."

Kate groaned - how she hated that nickname - and lifted her head from her father's shoulder. "You've been talking to Rick."

"Well, honey, that is how I got here." He cupped her face and kissed her forehead. "Congratulations. Now if it's not too rude, let go and give me my granddaughter. I haven't met her yet."

It was a joyous, transfigured Kate Beckett who turned for them, and Castle released the baby into her arms so that she could officially introduce their daughter to her grandfather.

All the light of the world came playing through their home, and Castle reached out his arm and tucked Alexis into his side.

"Thank you," he told her softly. "Couldn't have done it without you, baby bird."

—–


	113. Ask me tomorrow

**#142**

* * *

 _"Ask me tomorrow"_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

"You're mad at me," she says flatly. Crosses her arms.

But she can see her reflection in the bathroom mirror, so she drops her stance, clutches the edge of the sink instead.

He scowls into his toothbrush, doesn't answer. Brushes his teeth and spits, rinses. Uses the little cup she placed here earlier just for him, since she was getting one herself.

"You're really mad at me," she observes quietly.

He dries his hands, then plucks the moisturizer from her side of the vanity. "Not worth it right now."

 _Really_ mad. "What - can you tell me what about it has you-"

"Kate." He finishes up, drops his shoulders. "Not tonight."

She turns and heads for the bedroom, marching, leading the way or running away, one of those. Switches off the lamp on her side, hesitates before crawling into bed.

But he does. Not even a hesitation.

"We're just going to leave it?" she says quietly. Lying down. She's weary; she needs the rest. But her mind won't shut off.

He lies down beside her, on his back, staring up at the ceiling for a long moment. "Ask me tomorrow, Kate."

"Why, will it change your answer?"

He glances at her, his frustration giving way to something she can't name. It's not grief, not tenderness either. "Ask me tomorrow."

She slides her hand across the mattress and curls around his bicep, low where the muscle connects to his elbow, where he fits the curve of her palm.

And he bends his arm and captures her fingers there before taking her hand, tugging her closer.

She comes, slotting her body beside his, her forehead pressed to the side of his shoulder, and it feels like answer enough.

—–


	114. first nap together

**#143** (post Tyson setting Castle up for murder [Probable Cause 5x05] and Kate getting outed about Nebula 9 [Final Frontier 5x06])

* * *

 _Three word prompt: first nap together. Season 5._

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

While Nebula 9 plays on his large screen television in the office, he's not paying that much attention. He doesn't think she is either, though her eyes track the movements of her favorite characters, her mouth moving to speak lines it seems she's long memorized.

He finds it amusing, though he's tried not to tease. It's difficult, especially when her 'punishment' for making fun is to touch him - both hands, the skim of her mouth, suggestive and erotic until she laughs in his face and pulls away.

He hasn't told her yet, but he _likes_ the tease. Oh, does he. The harder to get she plays, the harder-

Well, yes. That.

They've called an unofficial truce about two shows ago, and he can admit that he's teetering on the edge of sleep, his somnolence affected by the weight of her body on top of his, the deep embrace of his couch, and the heat trapped between them under blankets.

He's going to fall asleep and it's only three o'clock on a Sunday afternoon.

But she still hasn't come up with plans for her birthday. Kate Beckett is a strange woman to love, prickly in all the places he didn't expect, but soft and vulnerable in the ones he assumed impenetrable long ago.

Every step feels like an expedition, and each new swath of territory he uncovers is rife with hazards - and yet abundant in beauty as well.

Like a Creaver mask in the bedroom. Like making her laugh until she falls off the barstool. Like spending all Sunday with him curled up on a couch, tangled and touching, combing his fingers through her hair while she makes runes on his throat with her thumb.

He circles her ear one more time, inadvertently interrupting her line of sight. She squirms on top of him and catches his hand, traps it at his chest, tucking his fingers under her chin. Little kisses to his knuckles, as if in apology, as if to keep him settled.

As if to lull him to sleep.

But he doesn't want to miss this. The show he couldn't care less for. But Kate-

Anything to keep awake.

"So," he murmurs casually into her ear, "jewelry is most definitely out. What do you want instead for your birthday?"

Her chin tilts up, fingers still twined through his. Her eyes search up along his face for a moment before she presses her lips to that spot under his jaw that always tickles in his groin, arousal mated to exhilaration.

"I want this," she says against his skin. "A day just like this. Watch tv, complain about being too lazy to get food, fall asleep together." Her teeth catch at his skin, a sharp awareness.

"If it's a nap you're after," he answers, his voice a burr in his chest. "I think you'll get that in spades - just keep plying me with Nebula 9."

"Don't be mean," she coos, right into his mouth, tongue teasing.

"You're the mean one," he grumbles. "Playing coy."

"You like it." Her mouth so briefly over his, that promise of heat. "And you'd fall asleep with or without the tv show. The second you get horizontal, you're out like a light."

"Unless you keep me - _up."_

She laughs right into his mouth, lifting her head so their eyes meet in that rare but ever-increasing honesty of connection. Stripped bare. The first wasn't the night she came to him soaked in thunderstorms, but it was the most intense. And ever since then, those most-raw moments have come again and again, and in some surprising places and times.

He touches her cheek, pushes her hair away from her face so he can see her better. "That's all you want?" He can't quite believe it, even though their summer of suspension has taught him a certain amount of faith. "You could have almost anything you want, Kate. A nap?"

She breaks their connection of eyes, dropping her head to his chest once more, cheek a hard point against his sternum. But her arm slides around his torso and squeezes.

"I like waking up to you, Castle. I can't get enough."

—–


	115. pickles, pop-tarts , jelly

**#145**

* * *

 _3wp: pickles, pop-tarts , jelly_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

"What the hell are you putting in that?"

Castle turned abruptly, spinning so fast that pancake batter flung from his spoon and sprayed the counter - and her white dress shirt.

Kate lifted an eyebrow and glanced down, that long slow perusal she had when she was trying to tuck her anger back inside.

"Just stuff, you know, for pancakes. Whatever looks interesting." Castle dropped the spoon back in the bowl of batter and grabbed for a dish cloth, moved to wipe at her shirt.

"No!" Kate arrested him with a tight grip on his wrist, jerking him away. "No," she said again, a little more calmly now. "I'll pre-treat it. Just. Leave it be, Rick."

She let go and he dropped his hand, tossed the dish towel to the counter. "Surprised me-"

She tilted her head, sly smile making him stutter to a stop. Her lips quirked as she unbuttoned her dress shirt. "Believe me. Well acquainted with what happens when I surprise you, Rick."

He gave a short bark of laughter, though his eyes were riveted to the smooth expanse of skin being revealed as she undressed. "Suppose that's true."

"The shower last night when-"

"Alright," he hurried. "You said you wouldn't make fun of me. Happens to everyone."

"Mm. I really do love catching you off guard." She opened her shirt and pulled it off, like unfolding, and his lungs caught and tightened, breath leaving him.

"Your fault then," he said, scraping words out.

"Like I said," she murmured, her gaze _hungry_ on him. Her tongue darted out, her chest heaving as she breathed, mesmerizing. "I can deal." She dangled the shirt by one finger and put it over her shoulder, her bra a devastating black lace that clouded his mind. "Ri-ick. Whatever looks interesting?"

He garbled an answer, his voice somehow breaking high. "I - yes - interesting - I can - do that - I'm good for interesting if you-"

She nudged past him, elbow knocking him to one side. "Pancakes."

He rallied a little. "Edible way of saying thanking so much for last night. Even with that stunt you pulled in the shower."

She tilted her chin up, eyes glinting gold with amusement. "Oh, yeah? How about you give me a taste test?" Her tongue poked out again, behind her teeth, and it twisted in his guts so that he wanted to cave in over her, around her.

"Taste," he breathed. "Yeah." He reached blindly for one of the still-warm pancakes he'd just finished, broke it in his fingers to bring a bite-sized piece to her lips. She grinned around it, touched her tongue to the pancake, took it inside.

"Oh, it's-" Her face twisted, body jerking away from him. She brought her hand up and spat it out, a little gag as she backed away. " _Castle_. What the hell - _pickles?"_

She turned around, threw her mouthful into the sink, began grabbing at the ingredients he'd left lying on the counter.

Her eyes narrowed at him as she gestured towards the miscellany. "All this? Pop-tarts, jelly, and you chose to shove _pickles_ in my mouth?"

Castle winced. "Shot too soon?"

—–


	116. First snowfall, caskett

**146**

* * *

 _First snowfall, caskett_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

"Kate! Kate, you gotta get out here. _Kate._ "

"Hold your horses, Castle, I'm coming," She heaves herself off the couch, pain flickering through her back, down her legs. He should know better, asking her to come running when she's barely able to move.

She lurches towards the door, grunting when her knee hits the side table in the entryway of the cabin. Her father's gesture was sweet, but it holds a lot of memories, this place, and she wishes Castle would've put his foot down or-

Something.

The front door is wide open. She pushes weakly at the screen door, stunned by the white that's fallen across the world. "Castle?"

"Out here. Just off the porch, look. Look at him, Kate."

She stumbles out, catches herself on the back of the adirondack chair, staring at the snow piled thickly across the front lawn. The trees are black bones wrapped in white, and the sky is like a blue bell, reflecting all that brilliant snow.

And standing a few steps away from the porch is Rick Castle, hunched over their son to dangle his booted feet in the snow. The boy cackles with it, clearly thrilled with the strange new experience, kicking his legs and waving his arms.

She sinks against the back of the chair, wishing she could be out there, wishing she had the strength.

Castle looks up, catches her watching them. He grins. "He loves it."

She smiles softly back at him. "He does."

"Tell your dad thanks, you know? We wouldn't have gotten this in the city. Just a bunch of slush."

"I will," she murmurs. She comes around the chair slowly and sinks down, gripping the arms as she lowers herself, wincing.

"Oh, oops. Kate. Sorry." Castle comes jogging back up the stairs and to the porch, the boy shrieking in protest in his father's arms, leaning out. Castle grips her by the upper arm, trying to help. "It's cold out here, honey. I'll get your coat. Here, take him."

He drops the boy in her arms and she stiffens, but he's running back through the door and inside.

The boy squawks at her, that temperamental Beckett combined with incessant Castle babbling, and she lifts a shaky hand to the top of his head, dusts snow from his little hat.

"Be easy with me," she whispers to him. "Mama was shot. Can't grab you if you decide to be reckless."

"He'll be good, so good for mommy, won't you?" Castle comes back through the front door and squats in front of her at the chair. He's holding her coat balled in one hand, but he lays it over the arm. "You've been afraid to hold him, haven't you?"

She swallows, her eyes on their son.

"Come out in the snow with us," he whispers, kissing her softly. He has one hand on the boy's back, supporting them both. "You shouldn't miss this."

"I'm not sure I can," she admits. "I'm not sure I have it in me."

He touches her thigh, perilously close to the bandages. "It's okay, Kate. I'll be right here. I won't let anything happen to you. To either of you."

She takes a deep breath, studying the boy in her lap and how he wriggles for more snow - but how good he is, staying right here in her lap, chattering around his fingers as he plays with his lips.

"You goofy boy," she murmurs tenderly. She leans in despite the pain all through her abs and she kisses his cheek. "Beautiful silly boy."

Castle lifts an eyebrow; he can tell she's come to a decision.

"Alright, Rick. Help me get my coat on and I'll - go out in the snow with you. Both of you."

—–


	117. Director gets punched

**#147** (Spy Castle Universe)

* * *

 _"Director gets punched" words cannot express how badly I want to see Agent Castle confront the director over what he did involving James. #SpyCastle_

 _— SHUTTERBUG5269_

* * *

He slipped away from Beckett while she was on the phone with Ryan, and even though he had the kid with him, he thought it might make the impression he was going for.

James had a fistful of his father's suit jacket, the other hand shoving a cracker in his mouth. Crumbs fell across Castle's lapel, but he didn't bother to brush it away as he stepped onto the elevator.

The Director was making his annual auditing tour of the New York Office, and while Colombia had been months ago, Castle had not forgotten it.

The elevator doors opened on the business floor, and Castle shifted his son to his other arm, leaving his dominant hand free. Just in case.

He moved fast down the hall, ignoring coworkers' greetings and the MPs who stood at attention for him. James gave shy little grins to pretty much everyone, so Castle figured his kid was providing enough social cover for him to be rude.

He met the Director's team just outside the accountants' office, and Castle pushed through them without comment. One of the security agents gave him a once-over, but again, the kid was useful. No one wanted to think an active field agent holding a kid was going to do something in the bowels of the NY Office.

The Director was on his feet, standing before a desk as he went through a bunch of binders.

James stiffened in Castle's arms. "Uck!"

"That's right, wolf. Fuck."

The Director straightened up, turning to meet them. "Richard. Ah. And the boy." He scowled at James.

Castle narrowed his eyes at his boss and put James on his feet, pausing only long enough to be sure James was steady. And then he stood to his full height, pulled back his fist, and he punched the Director in the face.

To his credit, the man rocked backward, stumbled once against the desk, but stayed on his feet.

Castle turned and scooped up his son, ignoring the pulse in his fist. He gripped James even as the MP from outside came rushing through the door.

"Don't you fucking _ever_ put my family at risk again."

The Director paused, a hand against his bloodied lip, and he waved off the MP.

Castle turned without another word and walked out.

—–


	118. I hate rabbits

**#148**

* * *

 _Three word prompt: I hate rabbits_

 _— MADWMNAURELIA_

* * *

"How can you hate rabbits?" she scoffed, dusting his shoulders with her hands as she leaned in over him on the couch. She kissed him upside down, smiling into his disgust. "Babe. Weren't you hanging out at the magic shop?"

"That's the origin of my-" Castle shivered under her hands. "Disgust."

"Oh, no," she laughed. "I hear a story."

He tugged on her arms, tried to pull her over the couch and into him. But she resisted, tugging back, snuggling down against his neck in appeasement. Her ass was hanging over the couch, but he was being cute.

"No story," he huffed. He turned his head and tried to kiss her, nuzzling with his nose, dusting a breath at her ear - all her usual _oh, yes, there_ s.

"Not-uh," she exclaimed. "No diversions. Straight up, Castle. Story."

"It was just a dumb bunny."

"A trick. You tried to pull a rabbit out of your hat and what-?"

"The stupid hare kept jumping out before I was ready."

She laughed, caught off guard by his opening, and it gave Castle the opportunity to drag her right over the back of the couch. She spilled into his lap and opened her eyes to find him grinning over her, coming in for a kiss.

She snaked her arm around his neck and pulled him close. "It's okay, Castle. To save your ego, I'll tell the kids no. You don't have to be the bad guy."

—–


	119. Castle gets tattoo

**#149**

* * *

 _Vignettes prompt: Castle gets tattoo_

 _— VOLIMSTANA_

* * *

"Oh my God, Castle, what did you do?"

She has to catch him when he falls out of the elevator and into her, and she takes a step back to keep the doors from hitting him. She cups the back of his head, afraid he might actually crash into the walls right here in their hall.

"Sorry," he slurs. "Had to be drunk."

"Had to." She sighs as he lurches on his feet, but she manages to right him again, get him moving down the hall. "Makes it sound like you had no choice."

"Not exactly. They're very persuasive. They have fists. And guns."

Kate narrows her eyes at him even as she pushes open their front door. "I told you not to agree to this."

"Did you forget the part with guns?" he whines.

"You should've stayed _away_ from them, Castle. Rita and Jackson Hunt - they do not have your best interests at heart. They're the _reason_ for-"

Kate stops short as she notices the wide bandage across his forearm, half hidden by the rolled cuff of his plaid shirt. She yanks the sleeve up and he yelps, staggering in the entryway.

"Ow, Beckett, ow ow ow."

"What did you _do_?"

"It was an honor," he starts, his eyes that blurry earnestness that comes when he's drunk. "Really, an honor that they think of me as a comrade in arms so to speak."

"Oh, no." Kate cradles his forearm in one hand and peels up the clear surgical tape with her fingers.

Bold black ink, almost violent in the lamp light. Blood red. Unnatural blue.

"It's really for you," he mumbles, pitching forward into her as he trips over his feet.

She catches his shoulder, easing his descent but unable to stop their slow collapse to the couch. Castle tries to wrap both arms around her and nuzzle into her neck, but she keeps his freshly inked arm held away.

"Castle," she sighs.

It's a rook from a chess set, but carved into its ebony surface are her initials.

Like she did in her old place, claiming her time and space and work there.

But he doesn't know that. He just-

"Castle, why did you do this?"

"I just love you," he sighs, and his whole body sinks into the couch cushions. His eyes slip shut only to flutter open, stare at her with that dreamy happiness. "And my - dad - said all the guys in his unit got tattoos with their girls' names on them."

"Oh, Rick," she murmurs, stroking her fingers through the flop of hair on his forehead. His eyes fall shut at her touch. She leans in and kisses his brow. "Lucky for you, you have the money to get it lasered off."

"No, never," he mumbles. "But maybe I won't go out with them anymore."

"No," she echoes softly, her lips touching his mouth. "Never."

—–


	120. caskett pet names

**#150 (Spy Castle)**

* * *

 _caskett pet names :)_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

"Hey, hon? Do you know where the remote went?"

Kate paused, turned slowly to look at her husband. His brow was furrowed, his hands on his hips, and James was trailing him as he came into the sunroom.

"Did you just… call me _hon_?"

Castle's face went blank.

James dragged his elephant with him across the wood floor, came running when he spotted her. She leaned down and caught him, pulled her son onto the lounge chair with her. The island was snowed in this weekend, and the view from the sunroom was gorgeous.

"Castle?"

"I - guess I did?"

"Don't you think that's a lot of pet names?" She patted James on his belly as he sprawled across her legs. "I mean. Sweetheart, baby, love. Now hon?"

"I… I've said 'honey' before," he answered. "It's just a shortened form of honey."

"You say honey when you think I'm dying."

"It's perverse that you know that," he muttered, sinking down onto the foot of the lounge chair. "And where is my remote?"

She poked him with her toe and he caught her foot, glanced at James who was cozy on her thighs.

"Hey, wolf, you gonna hang out here with Mommy?"

"My Mommy," James answered. He lifted his head and gave her a beaming grin. "Shh?"

"Sasha is outside in the snow, James. She likes it as much as you do."

"Snow!" James jerked upright and held his arms up, as if asking to be picked up and put right outside in it.

"Snow?" Castle sighed. "We were just out there. Why don't you have frostbite already?"

"All that super blood, _hon_ ," she said, biting her lip. Castle shot her a look and she laughed. "I've never been so grateful to be a regular vulnerable human being." She combed James's hair back and kissed his cheek. "Daddy will take you back out in the snow. Go find Sasha."

Castle scowled at her. "My remote," he mourned. "I was gonna see if you wanted to catch up on that stupid show."

"I want to lie in the winter sun and read - while my guys play in the snow," she grinned back at him. She leaned past their son and softly kissed her husband's frown. "What do you say, hon?"

"I say I'm sticking to the pet names I've already got." He shook his head. "Consequences are far too severe."

She laughed. "I told you from the start I'm not your baby."

"And yet."

"And yet you've managed to get away with it," she finished, patting his cheek a little too hard. "So far rather unscathed. I think taking our son out into the snow for another few hours is you making out pretty well in this deal."

"Fine." He kissed her and then scooped up James from her lap. "Alright, wolf. Time for snow."

—–


	121. Kate blessing jar

**#152**

* * *

 _Prompt? ... Kate keeps a blessing jar with all the sweet things castle does/did for her over the year. Pre couple maybe? Thanks_

 _— LOSTGIRLWONDERING_

* * *

"What are all these-"

Beckett launches herself across the precinct as she sees Castle in her desk chair. She grabs for him, fingers digging into his arm. "No - stop. Those aren't yours-!"

His eyes grow wide - and sly - and he begins unfolding one of the many (oh, God, hundreds, there have to be hundreds she's squirreled away) post-it notes he's pulled out of her desk.

She grabs again but he jerks back, stumbles down into his own chair with them clutched protectively to his middle, and she knows he's seen his own handwriting. And hers.

"Castle," she says urgently.

"No, not-uh, what are these, Beckett? This is the note I tacked to your computer screen after-"

"I know what they are," she growls, and darts around him, snatching the note. But the others are still in his lap and when she moves to grab them too, she stutters and ineffectually swipes at his thigh and even that is too much.

He's too much. She can't-

"Please, don't," she grits out. Not looking at him.

Castle is absolutely still in the peripheral of her vision, and when she realizes she's wringing her hands, she presses her palms to the desk and then sinks down to her chair. Rigid.

" _HA! I figured out your password_?" he murmurs. "You - dated it. That was over a year ago, and you've kept this?"

She swallows, opens her desk drawer where he teased the envelope out of the back while he was sitting in her chair - _two_ things she has repeatedly told him aren't his, off-limits, but she should have known better.

"I changed your password and you spent all day throwing paper clips at me," he muses. "And then you made me dumpster dive with Ryan and Espo until I broke."

He has every single one of those notes now. None of them remain in the drawer. Hundreds. And - some of them have more than just the date written on the bottom.

"Beckett. You were _furious_." He presses the post-it note to her desk and rubs his thumb across the ink. "Is this a catalog of all my sins?" His words are too-bright, jovial, and she jerks her eyes up to meet his.

But he's not looking at her either.

"No," she gets out, feeling hopeless.

A crease in his brow, the steady press of his thumb - those are his only tells.

"No, I - kept all of them." Why is her heart pounding?

"Kate."

She closes her eyes against his use of her name. (Why does she always hear, instead, that hoarse and urgent voice as it floated above her, just out of reach, the darkness descending like a curtain of blood? He says her name and she feels shot in the heart all over again.)

"What is this."

Her hand moves without her really thinking about it and she slowly peels the post-it note from the desk, carefully folds it back down again, sticky to the bottom edge so it won't catch on any of the others.

"This is-" She closes her palm around it, glances towards his lap where the neon rainbow of notes remain, pulls her eyes away in the next second. "These are reminders."

"I can see that much." The rumble of his words has a burr in it, and when she lifts her eyes, she sees that he's clearing his throat, but he's already opening another.

Even though she asked him not to.

"Rick," she says, knowing she uses his name as a weapon just as he does hers. "They're only important to me."

He's hurrying now, opening them one after another. "This is that 'Blazing Saddles' quote," he murmurs. "And this is the line from 'Nikki Heat' that I - uh - tried to tease you with. These are all mine. All - hell - from _years_ ago, Kate. How many stupid notes have I left for you?"

"Hundreds," she sighs. Gives up. "It was stupid. I should never have-"

"Why are you keeping all of these? What are you reminding yourself about?" His eyes are bewildered - absolutely clueless - when he lifts them to hers.

How can he still _not know_?

How can she not say it. "They just - remind me of - it's just you pulling my pigtails, right? That's all they are."

"You've kept these. All of these. My notes."

She hasn't said it right. He still doesn't understand. "Your words." His head jerks up. "Make a difference to me." She meets his gaze. "I hung onto them."

He doesn't say anything to that. But he begins folding them up, one by one, each note he cracked open. Without speaking, he carefully puts them back in the envelope, opens her drawer (nudging her elbow out of the way with a dizzying slow circle of his thumb against her bare skin), and he presses the envelope to the back of the drawer.

Closes it.

Her heart is thundering, but she risks looking at him, bracing herself for what he might say.

Only he doesn't.

—–

The next morning, rushing into the bullpen with her motorcycle helmet dangling from her fingers, she comes to an abrupt stop before her desk.

Cup of coffee means he's here. But the neon pink post-it on her computer screen has her sinking down to her chair.

 _Anything you need to make it through the day. I'll be here._

—–


	122. Not A Dream

**#154**

* * *

 _"Not A Dream" Maybe something kinda sweet. Something to warm up my soul while it's freezing and icy outside. :) :) :)_

 _— MAYBEJUSTMAYBEUNIVERSE_

* * *

She opens her eyes.

The blinds are slatted just enough to give a thin slice of the grey sky and its pale blue sunrise. No clouds, all scrubbed clean. The light grow exponentially, washing out the city.

She's warm right where she is.

She hasn't fallen asleep in his bed in weeks, ages, and it's both disorienting and _so_ right. Like slotting into place. Like stepping into the world that used to be closed to her.

She should sneak out; she should not still be here.

She doesn't move.

A shifting behind her, a grunt at the fingers of sunlight creeping across the mattress. An arm that slides around her waist so easily, and a rearranging of bodies in one oft-practiced move that leaves her aligned with him, skin to skin.

The heater kicks on in the apartment, a faint white noise that mirrors the rise and fall of his chest at her back. He leaves a sleep-riddled kiss on her shoulder and tucks his chin at the curve of her neck, heavily drops his head to the pillow. A sigh of breath leaving him. An only-felt inhale that presses them together.

She slides her fingers down his arm and trails over the back of his hand, circles knuckles with a light touch, and then lays her hand over his on the mattress, tucks him into her chest.

"Mm," he rumbles. "Good dream."

She brings the heel of his hand to her lips, then sinks her teeth into the meat of his thumb. He startles and laughs, arm tightening in that instinctive pull of her closer, and his own teeth find the back of her neck and scrape a shiver down her spine.

"Not a dream," she gets out. Not anymore.

—–


	123. Fair, cow, shooting-game

**#155**

* * *

 _Fair, cow, shooting-game._

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

"I'm really seeing a whole new side of you, Rick."

He grins back and tips his hat, nudging the brim up to let her have the full wattage of his smile.

Even though it's all charm and charisma and staging, she still feels all fluttery inside. He still gets to her.

She shoves on his shoulder and he gets moving once more, heading for the next stall under the metal roof. It's been drizzling for the last hour, and the thunder of rain on the tin over their heads is something both erotic and electrifying.

She came to him a storm. It does things to them both.

It has her ready at the least provocation, has her lips feeling a little raw like her heart, like there's no defense against this.

And him?

He's strutting around the 4-H building like he rustles cattle and rides a horse and has a shotgun over his mantle.

Why he thought a county fair in New Jersey would be the ideal place to seduce her, she might never know. Why it's _working_?

That is equally a mystery.

Which he has always been quite good at.

She winds her arm through his and pushes her fingers down into his front pocket, enough to remind him that she's not alone in this game, that it goes both ways.

The neon purple lion that's half her size has grown awkward and clumsy the more they wander through the stalls, but being pressed up at his side and smelling faint sweet hay on his plaid shirt and through it all the rain and the thudding of her heart in time…

He won her a purple lion. Shooting at fake, weighted milk bottles. No one is supposed to be able to beat the rigged carnival games, but he did.

No one was supposed to be able to storm through her walls either, but.

He does. No matter how many she puts up. How rigged her game might be.

"Is my manly prowess turning you on?"

She rolls her eyes, but he sees the answer anyway. Or feels it in the nudge of her knuckles in his front pocket.

"Driving out to Jersey was a mistake," he grimaces. She pauses and he shakes his head, regret like a frown. "It's going to take entirely too long to get you home where I can peel those wet clothes off you."

She laughs, feeling delicious, hugs the lion to her side. Both of them. Rawr.

"Castle, you do know they have motels in Jersey?"

—–


	124. You should drive

**156**

* * *

 _3 words..." You should drive"_

 __ Arraydesign_

* * *

His head whips around so fast that it makes her lips twitch. All over-eager yetcautious fumbling on his part as he takes the keys from her hand.

"I thought you said I was never allowed to drive in the Hamptons ever again?"

She releases the keys to him, letting her fingers trail over his wrist as they head out the front door. "Alone. Never allowed to drive alone."

He gives a full-body shiver as he steps onto the smoothly paved driveway; she releases him to move to the passenger side of his beautiful car. She drove on the way up here, and she drove when they had to make a run for groceries last night, but it's a gorgeous and warm day, and she's determined to relax.

"Where am I driving to? The country club for a glass of wine and a round of golf?" His eyebrows dance as he jogs around for the driver's door. "Or that shrimp and fish shack just off the highway? Ooh, I know, the-"

She lifts her eyebrows, has to resist the urge to tell him to _calm down._ "Surprise me, babe."

"Okay, okay," he says happily, sliding in behind the wheel as she adjusts her seatbelt. "I know just the place."

"That fast?"

"Been thinking about it," he admits, putting the car in gear.

The engine purrs, the Ferrari thrumming so nicely through the chassis that she feels it through the seat and in her bones. Between her l-

"It's only a seven minute drive from here, so don't get _that_ comfy," he says, taking a hand off the stick shift to land on her knee. And dust upward, skimming fingers under the hem of her loose cover-up. She has on a new one-piece swimsuit, if straps and gaps can really be called all one piece, and she knows it took him some time to recover after he saw her step out of the bedroom this afternoon.

"Keep your hand where it belongs and I won't," she shoots back, pressing her knees together and trapping his fingers.

"This is right where I belong," he growls back. She swats at his shoulder and he does remove his hand, but she takes it in her own and lays their clasp in her lap, pressing him up against her stomach, warmth to warmth in the cool air blowing through the convertible.

He wriggles his fingers right there when he has to shift, and she releases his hand to let him. Up through second and immediately into third, but no higher; he's taking them on a winding back road that runs parallel to the coast.

She rests her elbow on the center console and drapes her hand on top of his on the stick shift, strokes her fingers back along his knuckles. A rumble starts in his chest that is both amusement and arousal, one of her favorite Castle noises, and she turns her head to study him, watch it happen.

He's trying gamely to soldier on. He's very good at discipline when he wants to be, when he has a goal in mind. She enjoys that about him - the surprise of having a man who seems too eager to wait actually wait. Make her wait, hold her off, that delicious tension of being edged.

"See? Told ya. Here we are. Let me park."

"This is private beach," she says, craning her neck to see past the gated houses on either side of the little cul-de-sac. The road keeps on going, but he's pulled them off into a space that doesn't seem like parking either. "There's a gate-"

"It's actually public access," he says. "Very private, though, if you know what I mean." His eyebrows dance at her, and she has the fleeting and unflattering thought of _who_ he might have discovered this with. "Alexis and I found it a few years back."

She smiles at him for that, for knowing her weak places and shoring them up anyway, even though he shouldn't have to, after the things they've been through for each other.

He's a good man. A loyal man. She can't, for the life of her, figure out why he's been through two previous marriages. Why they fell apart, a man like this.

She lets him have her hand when he opens her door; he helps her out. The skirt of her beach cover flares above her knees and his eyes roam before coming back to her face.

She likes that too. Approves. He's tugging her to the blue-painted gate and pushing through, leading her down the wooden, poorly-constructed stairs. The whole frame shakes under their descent, but they make it down the grassy hillside and to the sand.

He tugs off his flipflops and holds them in one hand, gestures for her to do the same. He takes her sandals with his, and then her hand in the other, and they walk along the curving cove of public beach.

It's deserted. It's lonely. "Beautiful," she sighs.

He bumps shoulders with her and they wander slowly, the sound of waves gentler here, protected, though the two nearly-touching points of the cove are rocky and the far-off thunder of water hitting their cliffsides filters through like white noise.

"Why did it never work out before?" she says suddenly. She can't believe she asked, ruining what should be a private moment.

"To bring you here-?"

"With your exes," she says, shrugging. "One and two."

"You're my number one," he gruffs.

She rolls her eyes at that but it does soothe something fragile in her that she's never been able to completely repair over. "Castle. You're - so _good_ at this. Compassionate. Loyal." Why is this making her blush? "I'm not saying this because I love you, just because you _are_. So. What's the deal?"

"The deal is - I don't - I wasn't very good husband material."

"I don't believe that."

His eyes are happy when his gaze turns on her. She shrugs her shoulders, pushing it off, but still. She's made him happy.

"Believe it," he says, squeezing her hand. "Before I met you, I was something of a ne'er-do-well. A playboy-"

"Now I _know_ you're lying," she mutters. "You liked to play at playboy, but your heart is too soft for that, Castle. Tell me really."

He huffs a little, sidesteps physically and mentally both, but she's silent until he must feel it's necessary to fill the void.

"Meredith was fun at first. I thought she was like my mother. But in a good way?"

She chuckles, and he gives her a swift look that immediately collapses.

"But Meredith was having sex with - everything that walked. Only so many times a guy can turn a blind eye before running into it in his own bedroom."

She presses in closer. She's heard this one before, though not like this, with this layer of vulnerability. Without masks. No jokes behind it.

"No, that wasn't all of it," he sighs. Like she's dragged the truth out of him. "I was raising Alexis on my own, for all that Meredith was there. But I could have dealt with that. I could have made that work for me. It was when Alexis started looking at her mother with - with those adoring eyes. With that sense of unconditional love that was such a mercy at first, but also so damning. It made me look at Meredith too, really see her. She doesn't have my mother's heart."

"Martha really is something special," Kate says softly. She's been on the receiving end of his mother's grace.

"Meredith didn't have it. Whatever it was. There's nothing wrong with her; she's fun, crazy fun. But I was looking at a little girl who might follow right in her mother's footsteps, and I couldn't. I couldn't. I wanted my daughter to have a heart."

Castle has come to a stop on the beach. The wind picks up and blows his hair, flopping over his forehead. She leans her cheek to his shoulder and waits until he says it all.

"I think Gina was the same but other direction. She very definitely had rules. She very definitely knew how she wanted things to go. It stopped being fun for Alexis. For me - I could've made that work for me. But Alexis was miserable. I'd chosen this woman because my daughter needed a mother, but she turned into a slave driver for all of us. Even for herself. We talked about it the second time around and-"

He goes silent and she squeezes his hand. "It's okay."

"And without the crazy _not_ fun, there was no spark at all. Just a lot of sad fighting. So we quit. Again."

She sighs with him, leaving it to the roll of waves at the shore.

"I think you're the first woman I've wanted just - just for me. To want. To make me better and not my daughter. A partner in all the ways that matter and even the ones that probably don't."

"It all matters," she says softly. She lifts on her toes and kisses the crinkle of his eye where he's smiling at her, smiling like it hurts. "You matter. I wish better for you, but I think you're stuck with me. I do have a gun."

"You're better than I could have dreamed. And I've got a pretty good imagination." He skims his hand up to her jaw. "Gun or no gun."

—–


	125. her and his

**#157**

* * *

 _3 word prompt: her and his_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

Kate pressed forward and glanced into the coffee mug, wrinkled her nose at the strange plastic sticking up from the brew. "Castle."

"No, no, it's good. Come on. Don't disdain it."

She lifted her head just enough to meet his eyes, saw how invested he was. "Fine," she muttered, willing to go along, playing at it a little bit even though it sent a kind of secret thrill through her.

He always could do that to her. Bring her along into his world.

She fished out the plastic thing in her coffee mug to find pink heart, dangling from which was a key.

She lifted an eyebrow at him, though her heart thumped behind her ribs, beginning to speed up.

"What's this?" Pink heart that glittered, though the key was spinning back and forth in the kitchen lights.

"His and hers."

She dabbed the small silver key with a napkin, and as the plastic heart landed on the counter, it light up in crazy strobe, blue and purple and orange, the glitter sparking and dancing in the lights.

She laughed and glanced at him; he was grinning back, pleased with himself. And it was only the keychain to-

"His and hers what?"

Castle stepped into the counter and put his elbows on the granite, settled his chin in his hands with a cheesy smile.

Cheesy but it still got her, made her stomach flutter with anticipation.

"Mm, I added something to the box."

To the-

Oh. The _box_.

Kate jumped up from the counter, leaving her coffee behind as she scrambled back towards the bedroom. She could vaguely hear him following after, but with the pink heart gripped in her hand, she ran into the closet.

The box. _The_ box.

Once upon a time, last week in fact, it had been simply a cardboard box, a little less worn than she might have hoped, maybe a little more worn than Castle might have hoped, but a regular box.

Somehow, overnight, it had become - bedazzled.

"Oh my God, Castle. What have you done."

He stepped into the closet at her back, and the heat of his hands burned at her hips, burrowing under her sleep shirt to press into her bare skin. She caught her breath and glanced over her shoulder at him, and he nodded to the box.

A storage container now. He had decorated it - more hearts and sparkles and glitter - and when she reached up for it, Castle pressed into her from behind.

"Hell," she croaked, stumbling as she hefted the box down from the top shelf and into her arms. He was - quite intimately pressed against her, his body warm. "Okay, whew. Castle. Isn't this a little much?"

"Mm. You said you wanted Valentine's Day to be sexy."

Really. He was killing her here. "You've made our kinky toys box into a thirteen year old girl's Caboodles train case."

Castle gasped. "Caboodles! That's taking it back, Beckett. Stop disparaging my handiwork and just open it."

She elbowed him off and put the box on the floor, squatted down to inspect it. The key was apparently for the new glittery lock built into the storage container, and when she fitted it inside, the box popped open.

Kate laughed so hard she fell back against his shoe rack, lifting a hand to her cheek as it took her. Shock. Delighted, delicious shock.

Castle grinned and squatted down beside her, reached inside the box to pull out the lone item.

A black velvet jewelry box. Already open, on display. He held it in one hand, held it out to her, and wrapped his free hand around the back of her drawn up knee. "Kate. Happy Valentine's Day. Sexy enough for you?"

She bit her bottom lip and reached forward, touched the beautiful sapphire pendant. "Put it on me?"

His thumb skimmed her knee as he released her, taking the necklace from the velvet bed. He lifted it out and the chain was shorter than she'd expected, so that when he clasped it around her neck, it rested just at her collarbones, in the hollow of her throat-

where he kissed her, so lightly, his lips against the thrum of her pulse.

It took an effort to open her eyes again. She coasted her fingers at his jaw and curled them at his ear.

"Sexy enough for me," she murmured. "Now where's all our fun stuff, Castle, I want to properly thank you."

—–


	126. One year anniversary

**#159**

* * *

 _Three words prompt: One year anniversary_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

Kate Beckett pulled the scarf from around her neck, letting the soft light material trail through her fingers. Her hair swished as the silk came free, and she closed her eyes a moment to take it in.

Let the peace of the loft settle on her shoulders.

All this sneaking around. Sexy as hell, but tiring as hell too. For once she wanted to come up on the elevator and not go across the roof from the building next door. Last Friday she'd left her keycard to the roof access back in her bag at the office, and she'd had to go all the way back for it. When she'd finally sneaked inside the loft, Castle had fallen asleep on the couch in his office.

Of course, she'd had so much fun waking him.

But for once, she wanted to be _home._ Not sneaking home.

Speaking of home, where was Castle?

Kate hung the scarf over the end of the couch, shed her trench coat after it. When she had pulled her hair up and twisted it around one finger, she realized the Scrabble board was set up on the ottoman.

"Castle?"

"Oh, hey, you're here!"

 _Home_ , she thought irritably. "Yeah, what is this?"

"First anniversary!" He came bounding through from the office, hair mussed and his plaid shirt looking a little unkempt, like he'd been writing at the laptop for hours.

She liked fresh-from-words Castle. A lot.

"What anniversary?" she asked, hardly caring really. Not when she could step into him and slide her arms around his waist, ruck up his shirt a little to touch bare skin.

He shivered pleasantly and embraced her, a loose hold, his lips turning up into a smile. "First anniversary of the night I won at Scrabble."

Kate laughed, dipping her head forward to crash against his shoulder. "You big idiot."

"I want to relive my finest hour," he rumbled, though she heard the amusement in his voice too.

"Not quite your finest, Rick Castle." She squeezed his hips. "Not by a long shot."

"Care to enlighten me?"

"How about I show you?" she whispered, and lifted up on her toes to press her body to his. When she kissed him, he was already pulling her shirt out of her waistband and backing her towards the bedroom.

—–


	127. Principal, Beckett, Intimidation

**#160** (2x01, Deep in Death insert)

* * *

 _PRINCIPAL, BECKETT, INTIMIDATION_

 _\- kclmcaskett_

* * *

Rick Castle shifted in his chair, one finger tugging at the collar of his dress shirt, trying to swallow past the hard knot in his throat.

He saw Ryan give him a pitying look and he dropped his hands, clasped them in his hands in his lap.

Right.

Yes.

Well.

And here came Detective Beckett.

Castle sat up a little straighter, knowing his eagerness was showing but not able to do much about it. Covered up his nerves.

Esposito shook his head, that sympathetic cluck.

Okay, so maybe the eagerness wasn't hiding a thing.

He was nervous.

Very.

Beckett stalked right past him and sat down at her desk, thumping into it as she usually did in the morning before she'd had her second cup of coffee.

Which he had brought.

(He could be taught.)

Castle nudged the take-out cup towards her, not looking her in the eye (it was before eight in the morning; eye contact was a big no-no). She glared his direction but yanked open her bottom drawer and slammed her bag inside. More racket as she got paperwork from the locked drawer, looked for a pen, found it, reorganized her desk space. (He was here for the _paperwork_. That had to count for something.)

She finally reached for the coffee - that was definitely a studied nonchalance - and she put the cup to her lips, sipped without really looking.

But he saw her shoulders go down and her spine straighten, saw her whole body adjust to the morning.

It might be only psychosomatic, the smell and taste hitting her like a placebo, but whatever worked, right?

She was semi-approachable now. "So. Uh. The journalist and the photographer and the magazine spread… how mad are you?"

She slid him a sizzling, Russian-hot look (he would _never_ be able to get that image out of his head, Beckett in her _sweater_ as a _dress_ and that eyeliner and her hair sex-tousled, and damn, her legs).

"Castle."

He held himself still.

"For your own sake, never bring it up again."

"Yes, ma'am," he said quickly, clasping his hands more firmly together. As if that might keep him from touching things he wasn't supposed to touch.

(Her. Those legs running long from the severely-short hem of her sweater dress. Touching the long, smooth-)

"Castle, scram. It's only paperwork."

"What can I do to help?" he blurted out.

She lifted an eyebrow.

"No. Right. Yes." He pushed off the arms of the chair to stand, half turned, turned back. "But can I come back with lunch? I'm buying. For all of us," he said, raising his voice to include Esposito and Ryan. The boys grinned and gave each other a complicated-looking new handshake.

Beckett sighed.

"I'll take that as a yes," he said quickly.

As he scuttled out of the bullpen, he realized that encounter had been akin to being sent to the principal's office.

He grinned.

He could already imagine Kate Beckett in a tight, buttoned-up suit jacket, a sharp pencil skirt, and more of those impossibly high heels. A ruler. Slapping against her palm. Looking down her glasses at him with that condemning raised eyebrow.

Great. Like he needed _another_ impossible fantasy centered around the extraordinary. Detective Beckett.

—–


	128. I miss him

**#161** (insert 'Driven' 7x01)

* * *

 _Three word prompt: "I miss him"._

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

The morning came.

She was already awake, though she had tried, her body immobile in the bed. Nothing had worked; she had given up trying, had simply stayed there between the sheets, numb, watching the dark sky until it had finally lightened.

Morning was merely a grey cast to the view from the window, grime-grey instead of city-red, the world doing the walk of shame towards sunrise.

Kate turned her back on it.

The wall before her now held the faint stripes of window panes as light seeped through. She couldn't close her eyes.

She was alone in the bedroom and so very not alone. He was everywhere, and if the night had been ghostly, the morning was worse, the astral projection of his body at her back giving her vain, foolish hope.

She would not turn to look this morning. She wouldn't. She couldn't keep doing it to herself - think he was there.

He wasn't there.

He wasn't here. Even as much as he _was_. All around, filling the whole room, the loft until he suffused her every breath and leached into her skin and she was possessed by him.

Grief never wore well. She was going to drown in him as she had drowned in him before, but without him here, without him-

She closed her eyes, pressed her face into the pillow.

It no longer smelled like him.

That alone drove her up, shoved her out of an unslept bed and on her feet, pushed her towards the bathroom and normal morning routines. She brushed her teeth and listened to the water rushing into the sink, heard the rattle of her toothbrush alone in the holder. She went to the bathroom and washed her hands and flipped on the shower and stood there as it heated and she did not think.

Auto-pilot all.

Out of the shower, she twisted her hair into a knot at her nape and let it half fall out, wet strands sticking to her neck. She found clothes, couldn't remember if they were clean, couldn't summon the energy to care. She dressed and grimly congratulated herself on not leaning into his side of the closet and pressing her face into his shirts.

Not this morning. So far, she was making it.

She took the hallway and not the route through his empty office, moved straight through to the living room without seeing. She was mechanical with the fridge, gathered fruit and then a knife that she wasn't tempted to put against her wrists, the hollow of her throat, wasn't at all, and she made long even slices of cantaloupe which she had not bought and couldn't remember who had.

She was surviving the morning.

Until she turned around to make coffee.

And then she wasn't.


	129. Beckett physical therapy

**#162** (season 4 insert, early eps)

* * *

 _Beckett physical therapy, please_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

She laid on her back and tried to breathe through the sensation of pain cracking open her chest.

The physical therapist - another new guy - held her by the ankle and pushed her right leg back into her chest. She gripped the edge of the table and gritted her teeth, sucked in a breath when she realized she was in danger of passing out.

"One, two, three," the PT intoned, "and breathe out."

She huffed as he released her leg, so damn grateful that it washed through her like giddy grief.

"Good job," the new guy said woodenly. He was probably still in school. They kept giving her the idiots. She was so tired of physical therapy. So tired of not making it through a session without agonizing god-awful tears.

"Can we hurry this up?" she said, releasing her grip as the sensation began to finally ebb. "Next exercise."

"They said you were tough," the guy answered.

She had a sobering moment where she realized that _tough_ in this case didn't mean strong. He meant she was difficult.

Her PT gave her a smile that fell flat, but he wrapped his hand around her other ankle and began lifting her leg, pushing it back into her chest.

Oh, hell. Oh, stupid idea. Should've waited.

She was difficult, wasn't she? She was so damn difficult. God. It was impossible to be her sometimes.

She gnashed her teeth and closed her eyes, remembering at the last second to breathe out through the exertion.

And then her phone buzzed angrily on the table beside her hip, and they both jumped in startled surprise. Kate gasped as her knee came into her chest a little too fast, but she groped for her phone.

She pressed the home button to check, angling it towards her.

Castle. A text. _Waiting outside with coffee when you're done being tortured._

She gave a grunting laugh. Her leg was laid back flat on the table and the relief melted through her.

"Last one," the PT said. "You're scheduled for ultrasound therapy today, so let me get the machine and I'll be right back. Just rest."

The new guy left and Kate brought her phone up, texted back to Castle.

 _Thanks for waiting. Twenty more minutes and then I'm free._

After only a heartbeat, his answer:

 _I might have eaten your bearclaw. But I'm here._

She still had the grin on her face when new guy came back.

—–


	130. Elastic Heart, Roadtrip, buffalo sauce

**#163** (season 8 spoilers)

* * *

 _Elastic Heart, Roadtrip, buffalo sauce. (I'm cheating with no shame)_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

Castle was _belting_ the lyrics as he drove, singing at the top of his lungs. " _Well, I've got thick skin and an elastic heart. But your blade it might be too sharp - I'm like a rubber band until you pull too hard-_ "

She was squirming, and not because he wasn't quite hitting those high notes, her laughter mixing with the discomfort until she wanted to absolutely throttle him. "Stop making me laugh. Oh God, you have to stop."

"What? I'm just singing my favorite song. ' _Cause I've got an elastic heart, I've got an elastic heart-_ "

"Oh, God, there it is, finally," she gasped, spotting the sign for the rest stop.

She had needed to go to the bathroom for the last twenty minutes, and now here it was, coming up on the their-

Castle floored it. " _And I know that I can survive_ -"

"No, no, no-" She laughed even as she groaned, reaching out for the roadside rest stop as the exit passed them by. Or as Castle floored it and drove entirely too fast right past. "You punk." She slapped at his shoulder and turned to watch it disappear. "I _told_ you I had to go to the bathroom, Castle."

"I have a better idea."

"Smug idiot. I have to _pee_."

"Crass, crude language will-"

"Shut up," she laughed. Groaned, dropping her feet to the floor to cross her legs. "Seriously. If this better idea doesn't show up in five minutes, I'm pulling out my gun."

"Ha. You didn't pack it."

"Darn." She pressed her lips together but the smile was spreading, breaking free. "I'm serious. Five minutes."

"A-a-a-and here it is, right here. Look. Exit in ten miles."

"That's more than five minutes." She had to reach out quickly and grip him by the wrist, stilling his immediate move to drive that much faster. "You know how I feel about you driving in the Hamptons. Don't be excessive."

"Don't stain my leather seats," he quipped.

She pinched the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. "Don't be cute. Be safe." She squirmed on his wonderful leather seat. "Mm, well. Be smart."

He flashed her a grin and flipped his hand, caught hers, kissed the back with all the gallantry of seventy-five miles per hour.

It was longer than five minutes, but not by much, when he was pulling off the exit and zipping down the access road to a little roadside shack.

"Barbeque?" she growled.

"This is - hands down - the best BBQ you'll get shy of Memphis."

"Memphis? Texas has-"

"Do not even. Them's fighting words, Beckett, and if I recall, you need to 'pee', so just accept defeat gracefully and exit the car."

She punched his shoulder and he whined like a baby, but he was right.

She really _really_ had to go.

"We'll come back to this," she warned, already opening the door even as he turned off the ignition. She was climbing out on shaky legs and grabbing her clutch, but _he_ snagged her by the wristlet, tugged her back to him.

"Kate."

"Seriously, Castle-"

He kissed her hard and his smile made his teeth clash against hers. "Just wanted to tell you I love you. Thanks for roadtripping with me."

"I won't be roadtripping with you if you don't let me _pee_." But even though she was ready to burst, she paused and roughly kissed him back. "Love you so much, so much, Castle. Even if you are punishing me a little here."

He grinned, sly and clever, and she withdrew, fast as she could, heading for the BBQ joint's front door.

She really had to _go_.

But she knew he was following.

—–


	131. Beckett: shoot me

**#164 & #187**

* * *

 _"Beckett: shoot me"_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

Beckett is bracing herself.

Her chest is tight, knowing what happens next, the PTSD crawling under her skin.

He stands at her shoulder, as always, and she can feel his fury, impotent as they face the gunmen.

She's so damn tired of waiting for it. So tired of all of this. She can't do it any more. She's done with waiting for the other shoe to drop. Something's gotta give.

No more waiting.

She grits her teeth and looks the asshole in the eyes. "Shoot me."

"My pleasure," he sneers. Levels the gun at her, nostrils flaring with the scent of the kill. "You've been a pain in my ass for too long."

She's ready for it. She is so damn ready.

In the half-second it takes for the man to take aim and pull the trigger, Castle lunges. Kate dives to one side, sweeping her leg into the man's feet. Castle has already slammed the gun back into the man's face when the gunshot goes off, deafening and vicious.

The man screams; the sound of broken bones in his face shifting. But Castle groans a noise that has Kate barreling into the man and bringing him down, her elbow in his windpipe.

"Castle?"

He rolls off the man and collapses back to the gritty concrete floor.

"Castle," she gasps. A second to snag the weapon, another heartbeat to scramble to her husband's side.

She checks his pulse with shaky fingers, runs her hand down his chest for wounds.

His hand comes up, mangled, blood-soaked.

"Castle!"

"Get him?" His body lurches upward and she catches his shoulders. "Did we get him?"

"We got him," she whispers, mouth twisting as she reaches for his hand. "What-"

"Gun. Jammed or - caught my skin." His eyes come to hers sluggishly. "I'm okay."

She's already working at the buttons of his shirt, yanking his Oxford off and down his arms.

"Frisky," he mumbles, gasps as the shirt catches his skin.

She doesn't bother to unbutton his cuff, simply wraps the material around his bleeding hand. Tightly. He grunts and she ties it off, horrified by the way the blood is already staining the shirt.

"We need to call boys. Get a bus."

"But it's over, right?" He's leaning so far forward she can tell it's more than just his hand. "Is it over?"

"It's over. It's over, Castle. We're safe. You need an ambulance. You should lie back down."

"Be fine." He shakes his head and she sees the way he's beginning to shut down. Shock?

"Not fine." She pulls her cell phone out from her back pocket, thumbs the unlock. "Where are those guys?" Esposito was supposed to be right on their tail. "Damn it."

"It's okay," he says, voice like gravel. "Be okay. Just took a chunk out of my skin. Just a little blood."

A chunk?

She squeezes the compress around his hand and he gasps, his eyes rolling back, but she's not letting go. He lists hard into her, his full weight pressed into her body. The second she gets someone on the line, she barks out commands, ordering a bus and back-up.

In moments, Espo and Ryan are running through the warehouse, approaching fast, but when she looks up to reassure Castle, he's already passed out.

—–

* * *

 **#187**

* * *

omw omw omw omw omw omw omw oh my werrrrrdddddd pleeeeaaaaaassseeee write a continuation for #164 "Beckett: shoot me". PLEEEAAAASSSEEEEEE! OMW IT IS SO GOOD, BUT OMW I AM DYING, THAT ENDINGGGGG! AAAAAHH CONTINUATION, PLEAAAAASSSEEEEE

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

He wakes from surgery with the strange sensation of cool water over his fingers.

When Rick turns his head and opens his eyes, Kate is bowed over the hospital bed, her forehead to the mattress, shoulders hunched. Her hair soft against the back of his hand, along his forearm where she lays.

He swallows the dryness in his throat, body heavy, but he manages to twitch a finger against her neck. Warm skin, the slide of her throat, but her head jerks up, her eyes locking on him.

"-you crying for?" he croaks out.

She lets go of his hand and swipes hard under her eyes, rubs her cheek against her shirt. A smear of black mascara that fascinates his anesthetized brain.

"Nothing," she speaks, shakes her head as her lips twist. "Your hand." Her words are keening, but she dips her chin and scrapes her hair back, and he sees her trembling.

"My hand-" He glances to his other side where it's still taped down to the board, a fancy brace attached, lots of weird accoutrements intended to set the broken bones. "Oh. Well. Yeah. They said it would heal?" He's pretty sure they said that. Hard to remember.

"Yeah," she says, nodding now. Overly so. Like she's trying to encourage herself.

He can't lift his arm. His hand was mangled; he broke the small bones in his thumb knuckle. "Figure out - figure out what happened?"

"Casing from the round didn't fully eject from the port - and when he moved to fire again, your hand caught in the slide as it tried to pull back."

He blinks. "Oh. Okay." He doesn't follow. "That's fine. Sure it'll be fine."

Her face turns away, a hard breath. She drags a knuckle under her eye to wipe at the tears.

"Kate?"

Her head turns back to him. Everything is quiet. "Your writing," she breathes.

For a moment, he has no idea.

It just doesn't connect. The drugs or seeing her tears or the heavy weight of the brace on his hand, but it doesn't meet up in his brain.

And then it does.

"Oh. Hey." He laughs, and she's speechless, mouth open, staring at him. He laughs again even though it sounds like a bullfrog dying in his chest. "Sorry, might be high. Think I'm high. Kate, writing's - no problem. Speech to text app, or - whatever-"

"Speech to text app," she echoes. "You have that. Of course you do."

"Course, course," he mumbles. Her hand comes lightly over his, stroking, and it makes it even worse. He's having trouble putting words together right. She only looks more concerned. "Physical therapy? I'm sure they'll do that stuff, make me squeeze things, and it'll be fine."

"Rick," she sighs. "Therapy isn't - a picnic." Her mouth draws in a tight line. "I didn't want that for you. I wasn't trying to…"

When he tries to look at her, his head rolls dangerously on his neck, everything loose. "-'m falling asleep, Kate. Drugs. Need to know you're okay."

"I'm okay," she says. "Worry about you, Castle. Not me."

He doesn't quite believe her. But darkness is tunneling his vision. He's so heavy, everything is so heavy that he can't keep his eyes open.

"You too," he sighs, wishing. "Come 'ere." His uninjured fingers hook at her wrist. "-'m'ere."

Kate leans in, setting her elbows on the mattress, both of her hands coming to his chest. He sighs and his eyes slide shut.

Better. Be better. Be just fine. Gotta sleep.

—–


	132. Kate naturally curly

**165 -** (Always - After the Storm insert)

* * *

 _Kate, naturally curly_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

She was naked.

She was naked and standing in his bathroom. The lightning had faded but the rain still thrummed, and the soft moon of the night light in his bathroom put her body in shadows.

"What is - What happened?"

Kate turned, wincing as her ribs shifted against bruises that flared hotly under her skin.

Castle was standing dumbstruck in the doorway, staring at her.

"Looks worse than it is." She reached slowly for the dress shirt she'd found in his closet, moved to slide it on. God, it hurt. Everything hurt, especially after that thing-

"Oh, that," he said flatly.

She lifted her gaze to him in the bathroom mirror. He was studying the blooming ink stains of bruises along her spine. His face was stony, that narrowed slit to the set of his eyes that meant he wasn't pleased.

"Not that," he growled. "You said he beat the shit out of you. I know that much."

She flinched, but apparently Rick Castle was done with pretty words. She'd pushed him too far for that.

At least he'd taken her in. At least - that moment with his fingers skimming her sternum and the way he'd humbled himself at the scar - and her breasts, she thought with a smirk - at least she had seen it in his face, all those words he wouldn't say now.

Or couldn't.

"No, what I'm asking is-" His hand came up and touched her shoulder, her bare skin, and immediately her whole body flooded with heat and awareness and the sense of him so close and tantalizing-

His fingers sank into her hair, winding through the thick, unkempt strands. His head came down and he inhaled softly, his eyes closing.

She clutched the edge of the counter, swayed.

His lips grazed across the ends of a curl and she could swear she felt it. Raw. His eyes were still closed. "I didn't know your hair was so…"

"Crazy?" she whispered.

"Beautiful. Natural." His eyes opened and came slowly to meet hers in the mirror.

She was shivering again, skin electric.

"When the car went into the river," he murmured. "I don't know why I didn't realize. But your hair dries like this." He cupped the back of her head and she turned into him, his naked skin to her own. His lips came to the corner of her eye. "In these amazing waves."

She slid her arms around him and pressed.

Their mouths touched, his intimacy making her moan.

"Come on," he murmured, hands wandering, dusting her bruises. "Let's wait out the storm together."

—–


	133. I'm too old

**#166**

* * *

 _Three Words Prompt- I'm too old_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

"This is really an unhealthy level of obsession," Castle said. He had to pet down her hair to keep it out of his mouth, tangled on the couch like they were.

She shrugged him off, turning up the volume on the television to drown him out.

Of course, that didn't stop him. "No one is supposed to watch them back to back, Beckett."

"Shhh," she said, elbowing him back. "I'm trying watch. My favorite part."

"It's _all_ your favorite."

"Yes," she hummed, wriggling her ass back into him. Castle grunted, falling momentarily silent as he was stunned by her sudden proximity.

Smart of her, really. No one had ever called Beckett stupid, and she definitely knew how to compromise him. He couldn't help sliding his hand around her waist and pressing her hips back into him.

She didn't complain; she even shifted just enough for absolute teeth grinding bliss.

With his head propped on the arm of the couch, he barely cared about the string of movies she was forcing him to watch tonight. They'd had so little time to be at home together; sneaking around was thrilling, but it wasn't exactly _comforting_.

Apparently, his response to her arrival at the loft was now Pavlovian. Open the door to find Beckett on the other side, and immediately his body was at attention.

She was definitely taking advantage of that tonight.

"Couldn't we have done the John Woo marathon instead?" he asked, forcing an air of nonchalance he really didn't feel. He was desperate to press his mouth to her neck, make her pulse pound as hard as his own.

Kate's hand came back to stroke lightly at his thigh. "Hush, it's coming up soon."

"It definitely is," he groaned.

She elbowed him again, strategically, and he grunted, grabbed for her arm. "It's the last movie, Castle. Be patient."

At that moment, the two partners on the television screen were having a touching heart-to-heart, sitting side by side on a locker room bench. Something about getting older, growing up, accepting that time was catching up to them. All fine and good, kind of boring. Castle really wasn't paying attention until Mel Gibson turned to Danny Glover and called _bullshit._

 _"I don't accept it,"_ he said. " _I'm not too old for this shit. Say it with me, we're not too old for this shit. We are not too old for this shit."_

Castle laughed, leaning into Kate to finally kiss the soft, sweet spot under her jaw. "You trying to tell me something, Beckett?"

She reached back, lightly scratched the side of his face. "Hadn't really meant to. But yeah, I guess so."

"Life lessons from Lethal Weapon."

She turned halfway, smiling up at him. Her kiss was quick, but sincere. "We're not too old for this shit."

"We can do it," he promised. "We will do it. However long it takes to finish your secret investigation, we can _make_ it our perfect timing. Even if it's not the usual, traditional family. We'll make it fit."

She kissed him then, deeper, shifting to put her body under his. He rolled into her, hips clashing, and dug between them for the remote control.

Castle turned the tv off, and she didn't even complain, just dragged him back down to her kiss.

—–


	134. Broken espresso machine

**#167** (mid season 8)

* * *

 _Broken espresso machine._

 _— AWESOMEBAZAN27_

* * *

It's not panic.

No.

Not anything like panic. It can't be panic, not over this, not because of a boring day doing paperwork. It's _not_ panic. It's merely frustration.

Kate Beckett jiggles the steam wand, but it won't move far, and the portafilter handle is completely stuck. It's ridiculous really, and it's not like she needs another cup, but it's become habit.

Necessary habit. Vital habit.

Vital.

It's not a panic attack. She cannot be having a panic attack over a stuck handle. While the groaning hissing noises that the espresso machine is making sound like a bomb, like being in the middle of a battleground, it's still not a good excuse for the way her hands are shaking.

After everything she's come up against, she refuses to lie down before an espresso machine.

But she calls Rick before it completely overwhelms her.

Just his voice on the phone brings her shoulders down. And his amused surprise makes her spine stiffen.

 _I'll fix it. Be there in twenty minutes._

She starts to protest, but he's already ended the call.

For the best, really. Twenty minutes gives her just enough time to walk off the nervous energy vibrating in her blood. The surge of panic that crawls up her throat.

It's not really about the espresso machine.

It is everything else. The game they're playing with this farce of a separation, the deadly consequences, the investigation that goes in circles. A broken espresso machine is only the last straw on her already overloaded mind.

She can't have this. Not in her house. She's the Captain; she's the one who leads them.

Pacing the break room won't help.

She unlocks her phone and types a message even as she hustles out.

 _Coffee place near the Met. Need caffeine therapy. I'm not waiting for the espresso machine to be fixed._

Le Pain is really a bakery, but she knows he'll remember it from their walk last summer after the award dinner. Holding hands, her shoes pinching her feet, his thumb playing at her inside wrist.

Memory of him is bringing her back to center. And keeping him out of the precinct seems to be doing the trick as well.

She pauses in the bullpen, takes a long look at her people. Only Ryan lifts his head and sees her there, makes eye contact.

"I've got a meeting," she says, loudly enough for the rest of them to hear. A few head nods, a few half-waves, but mostly it's business as usual.

She turns to leave, grabbing her coat from the rack just inside her office. Her phone vibrates in her hand with a message back from him.

 _I'll be there. Castle therapy available at no charge._

Just what the doctor ordered.

—–


	135. castle car accident

**#168 & #201**

* * *

three words prompt: castle car accident

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

The ringing goes on, round and round his head, dizzying.

Something hot stings his eyes and he opens them, automatically lifting a hand to swipe at his face. He comes away with blood, with pain, and he jerks in the seat.

"Kate-" His voice is muted, sound far away, but there's something muffled, sounds of metal and glass. "Kate."

He fumbled with the thing - the suffocating him - the airbags, the airbags were whiting out the world. He battled them back, their heft already deflating, but his movement drew attention to the pain in his hips, the ache in his head.

He had to stop for moment, breathe through it. "Kate? Kate."

Finally the airbags came free and he could see the shattered, spiderwebbed cracks through the windshield, the jagged sunburst of impact.

"Kate," he croaked.

He turned wildly towards the driver's side.

She was slumped into the door, pristine but unconscious. He surged forward only to be caught by his seatbelt. He struggled with the buckle and managed to get himself released, but in that moment, he realized he could hear the ticking of the engine, not yet dead, the sound of hissing.

Not good.

"Kate," he said, more loudly now. He got free of the seatbelt and leaned across the center console, reaching out to touch her.

She moaned and her eyes fluttered open, a second later she was stiffening up and clutching his wrists. Holding him off.

"Kate," he said roughly, voice cracking.

She turned to him, and he saw the way she closed off the pain, those walls framing her, sealing her in. "Rick. You're bleeding."

"I'm okay. Head wounds bleed." He nudged past her hands to work at her seatbelt. "We have to get out of the car. Right now." She was shifting slowly, too slowly, and he untangled the seatbelt from her waist. "Right _now_ , Kate."

Her eyes opened to his. "Yes." A heavy blink. "Yes. Out."

"Open your door, Kate. Can you open the door?"

He saw that as she moved the pain was great, but she was working at the door handle, she was working.

The sound of the engine was worse now, his door was mangled, the whole front corner of the dash. She was struggling, she was leaning hard into it. "Kate. My door won't open. We have to get out your side."

Kate groaned and pushed her shoulder into it and suddenly her door screeched and tore open. She fell back, knocked an arm into the remnants of the airbags. Castle drew a knee up onto the seat and gripped her hips, pushing her out.

"Let's go, Kate. Go. We need to get out."

She was moving; he could see she was trying to move. Her legs didn't seem to want to work, but the sound of the engine was high-pitched now.

And he had no idea how many other vehicles were caught up in the collision, if it was still going on. They'd seen it happen in front of them and she had managed to nearly get clear, but now the sound of steel compacting was thundering behind them.

Kate fell out of the open door, hands and knees, and he came after her, tearing free of restraints and air bags, battling to get out.

Kate was on the pavement, head bowed, and he reached down and scooped her up, hauled her to her feet. "Go, go, go," he called in her ear. "Get clear."

She barely managed any traction, but he had her easily. He knew the seatbelt must have bruised her ribs, and the air bags had abraded her face, but it was easy to propel her forward.

The concrete divider was closest, black lines where other cars had smashed against it, and once there, he slung an arm around her waist and carried her over it.

On the other side, there was an emergency lane scattered with debris, and a tractor trailer on its side in flames. An SUV had jumped the divider only to land half on and half off, and the miles of interstate ahead of the semi were completely clear.

"This way," he told her, pulling her away from the flames and towards the clear pavement. He could hear sirens, and they were on this side, coming the wrong way down the interstate.

"Castle," she gritted out. She was gripping his dress shirt with a fist so tight her knuckles were blanched. "Castle. I have to stop. I have to stop."

"No. We can't." Ambulance was coming into view. He just needed to get her to the ambulance.

"Castle, my hips - my ribs-"

"I know," he said tightly. He'd seen the steering wheel mangled against her, seen the way she had moved. Was moving. Felt the agony she was holding back. "They're likely broken."

"Gonna puncture a lung if you don't let go of me."

He halted on the pavement, turned to look at her. She gave him an entirely too weak smile and then her eyes rolled back in her head.

Castle caught her.

Being careful of her torso, as careful as he could, he picked her up and faced the oncoming responders.

Get to an ambulance. Get Kate help.

* * *

 _Three words prompt : Please, continue #168_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

"You got it?"

She nodded, stepping gingerly over a twisted fender along the side of the road. The six lane interstate exchange was cripplingly busy even at five in the morning, but she had needed to be here.

After everything they'd been through, the massive 58 car pile-up and nearly dying and rehab and two wounded people in the same mess of emotions, she had needed closure.

His hand came back and reached for her, helped her over a smear of metal bits that had been ground to a sharp and deadly debris. Her balance was better than it had been, but her ribs ached all the time and they'd told her that might never get better.

Grief was done. She wanted to go back to _living_ this life they'd created for themselves.

No matter what it looked like now. How barren without-

"Hey. Here's where I shoved you into an ambulance." He gave her a lopsided grin, but she saw how his eyes filled with guilt.

"If you hadn't, I'd have died. Bleeding out internally. You know that."

"If I'd been gentler about shoving you out of the car-"

"Can we not?" she broke. She cleared her throat and picked her way around the shattered glass. "None of that helps. Forward march."

"Yeah," he answered. He sounded washed out.

When she glanced at him, he was staring off into the distance, to that concrete divider where it had happened, where she had slammed on the brakes to avoid the collisions ahead and behind, where their car had done a tailspin and flipped around and slammed into the barrier.

"We're alive." He turned his head and if his hand closed into a gapped fist and flexed again, scars criss-crossing the places where not even multiple surgeries could fix his fingers, he didn't seem to be aware of it. "We're alive, Kate."

She nodded, throat closing up, and made up the last of the distance between them with careful, painstaking steps. She hadn't gotten used to the brace; it would be a while.

He wrapped his arm around her waist, slung low to help support her weight, and she gladly leaned into him, let him take it.

She breathed out, persisting despite the catch in her ribs. Despite the stiffness in his fingers where they'd no longer bend.

"You saved my life," she told him, lips against his ear. "You saw the car when the insurance investigator found it. Pushing me out, _making_ me - saved my life. I'd have been crushed by the semi when it rolled."

He nodded, fingers twitching at her lower back. His lips ghosted her cheek. "Let's go, Kate. I don't want to waste any more time on _here."_

She knew the feeling. But she carefully untangled herself from him, wincing as the hip brace dug into the tops of her thighs and the bottom of her ribs. She scanned the emergency shoulder of the interstate, looking for something that spoke to her.

She saw it, about five yards away, a longer distance than she liked to walk strapped in this thing. But she started for its shiny, irregular lump with all the confidence of her former stride if not the power or grace.

He stayed where he was. "What are you doing?"

"I know none of this is from the wreck. Our wreck. It's all debris from a thousand different accidents and blow-outs and emergencies that have happened since then. But."

She couldn't bend over to pick up.

Oh, God.

She hadn't - it hadn't entered into her head that the brace would prevent her from doing the one damn thing she needed to put paid to this part of their lives.

Kate pressed a hand over her eyes and tried not to let it mean defeat.

"What are you trying to do, honey?" His voice in her ear and his hand at her back, hovering just above the line of the brace. "Let me. Remember? I'm your hands, as mangled as they are."

"Shut up," she rasped, elbowing him even as she commanded. "Bend down for that piece of twisted metal. Has that blue at the top-"

He grunted and leaned down, swooping in to pick it up before she could even finish. If she envied his ability to contort his torso and bend his hips any way he liked, the jealousy died when he lifted the prize to her view and his fingers wouldn't close around it.

She swallowed and took the piece of debris from him, fingering the fine sweep of smooth metal where it twisted to a point. As she'd seen from a distance, it was small, light, as if torn from a license plate holder or the grill of a car. It hooked at the top, barely as big as her pinky finger, and created a kind of eyelet.

She lifted the chain from around her neck and ignored him when he sighed. She unclasped the chain - which had seen her mother's ring and her own in former days - and she slid the chain through the eyelet and let the twist of metal dangle.

Castle took it from her fingers once she had it clasped, and he lifted it over her head and let it settle over her collarbones. The piece of metal rested between her breasts where the bullet scar had started to diminish.

He pressed his palm over it, as if in blessing. "We may be a little twisted now," he told her softly. "But there's still beauty in us, Kate."

Her smile spread her lips and cracked across her face, relief spilling through her still-awkward, half-broken body. She shuffled forward until their hips almost touched, and she leaned in to whisper a kiss.

But he made it a shout, and she knew they were going to be just fine.

—–


	136. pictures of you

**#169** (early in the spy castle universe)

* * *

 _Three word prompt: pictures of you_

 _— MADWMNAURELIA_

* * *

She hadn't meant to go through his things.

Agent Castle had gotten in around three in the morning, just as she had been pulling on her boots to leave for a body drop. He'd groaned in displeasure at the sight of her up and dressed, but he'd let her go with a brutal kiss.

When she'd made it back, she had found him sacked out naked in her bed, fading bruises down his spine and a scar she'd never seen before.

It was habit. Gathering his clothes strewn around the room and dumping them in her laundry hamper. She'd kept a few things here, washed them for later, t-shirts and sweats and a pair of jeans, really, but this-

This had been something _she_ had bought him. The thin thermal jacket with hidden pockets inside and out, and as she lifted it from the chair where he had tossed it, she could feel how laden down it was.

She began rifling through his pockets, just curious, not really intending to be nosy. She sat down in the chair and lined everything up on her thighs, the contents of his pockets fresh from an overseas mission.

A broken compass in the interior left pocket. Exterior pocket held a burner phone and a keycard she couldn't place. The left interior breast pocket was flat with a folded up packet - turned out to be herbs of some kind, their scent redolent when she put her nose to it. He'd been in India this past month, off and on. She could smell it in his things.

But it was the next pocket, nearly hidden, that made her pause. The sleeve held a thin zipper just at the inside of the arm, and when she tugged it neatly down, something slid out.

It was a neat bundle, tied with a black thread. Thick papers in small squares, and when she carefully unwound the strings and managed to undo the loops of the knot, the whole stack came loose.

Photographs.

Small squares of photos. Of her.

All of them. Nine. Nine photographs of her. Must have been with his phone at some point, but of course he couldn't carry that kind of thing on his phone permanently. These…

She carefully put everything else back into the jacket and laid it over the arm of the chair. The photographs she left on her knees, arranged them in what she thought might be chronological order.

One in the darkness. She must have been asleep. Morning light was the only respite to the shadows in frame, and her hair was wild on the pillow. Maybe right after they'd met, she thought.

The others were similarly taken by subterfuge. A shot of her on the subway, looking over her shoulder. Another showing just the slope of her neck, her hair in a loose knot, her ear showing pink as the light came in behind it.

She touched each photo, one after another.

And then she gathered them together, pulled the string around them, and made a bow. But she didn't put them back in his jacket.

Instead, she stood and laid the little stack on the bedside table where he would see them when he woke.

—–


	137. This changes everything

**#170** (8x15, Fidelis Ad Mortem - post-episode, aka the one where Castle tells Beckett what he learned in LA re LokSat)

* * *

 _Prompt: This changes everything._

 _— WRITINGONTHECASTLEWALLS_

* * *

"We do this to each other," she mutters, pressing her hand over her eyes in bed. "Don't we?"

Castle rolls on his side to look at her. Her hair is tangled and he reaches out to touch one of those wavy curls, tugging a little. "We do it very well to each other."

Her bitterness disappears like the popping of a soap bubble and she turns her head to look at him. Tenderness there. Her hand comes up and catches his, their fingers tangling. Weariness creeps over her. "I've taught you to hide and keep secrets just like me."

"Pretty sure I do that on my own," he whispers, leaning in to brush his kiss over her knuckles. "A whole lifetime of masks and personas, Beckett."

"I'm sure the constant subtext hasn't helped any," she mumbles. "I never let you say what you always wanted to say."

"Not quite," he chuckles. "Said what I wanted to say. You just happened to be-" And then it dies on his lips, that fast, no humor in the memory of watching her die.

"Yeah," she sighs. Their fingers entwine, separate, come back together. "You know I love you."

"If I said _ditto_ would that be too flippant for the moment?"

She rattles his fingers in hers but her lips are sliding up into a smile. "You know we need to unlearn this - what I've taught you to-"

"Look, it makes sense though." He squeezes her hand in his. "You're the cop. You made me sign a ton of paperwork which basically said I was a complete moron, you always take point, I never go through the door first. I'm gonna get your team killed with my asinine antics. I get it. It's hard to stop that mindset."

"I'm the cop," she stresses, shakes her head, hair tossed. "Sure, I'm the cop, but just how many times am I going to make you prove yourself?"

"Did I still need to prove myself, Kate? Because I will. Time and again if you-"

"It's not you. It's fear." She tries to remove her hand from his but he won't let go. Her eyes flutter shut. "I'm afraid to do this without you. So I… do this without you."

He leans in and kisses her closed eyelid. "Might be hard to believe, but it looks like I was wrong. I'm not the one with something to prove. You're trying to prove something to yourself. Well. Stop, Kate. There's nothing to prove anymore."

Her lashes part and her eyes fall open. "I don't know how to stop. Always _fighting_."

"Fighting is why I love you. Just maybe - stop fighting yourself. Fighting your own happiness, your joy."

"Sabotaging myself." She chews on her bottom lip. "Sabotaging you too."

"No more secrets," he reminds her softly. "No more damn Gift of the Magi."

Her laughter is sharp, relief spilling across her face.

She looks lovely. But scared. And he hates that.

"Together is always better," he offers. A little lame.

She sobers. "Castle. What we've done - what we're going to do - it changes everything. This guy, whoever he really is, he _shot_ you. He killed my whole team. And…"

"I know," he says quickly, leaning in over her, pressing her back to the mattress. "I know all of that. Which is _why_ -"

"Which is why," she sighs.

Agreement. At least that's something. He extends a finger from hers and traces the slope of her nose, exactly the way she hates but he can't seem to stop.

He loves that she endures it for a moment, loves even that she knocks his hand away and rolls them, putting herself on top, her hair spilling down. Her eyes binary stars in the cosmos of her ferocity.

"Starting now, we unlearn it," she says, rocking into him. "No more silence. No more subtext."

He grips her thigh, coasts his free hand up her back to tangle in her hair. "I kind of like the subtext," he grins. "But I like it even more when you're vocal."

She leans down over him, feral. "It's not all about sex, you know."

"Oh no?"

"Well," she whispers, nipping his mouth with her teeth. "After this it's not."

—–


	138. Beckett, drunk, fireball

**#171** (season 8 references)

* * *

 _Beckett, drunk, fireball :))_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

"What did I do?" she whispered, staring into her shot glass.

He stared into her. Found no more answers for her than he'd had when he suggested the bar in the first place. "We'll start over," he told her.

"From _what_?"

"We'll figure it out," he cajoled. But his words were falling flat. The whiskey did that to him every time, gummed up his mouth so that everything he said was damaged. He might have been drunk.

She groaned and hunched over the drink. There were four empty shot glasses beside her, and he couldn't remember when that had happened. Or who had poured them. But the bottle was bright and cheerful in the dim lamp.

She gingerly touched her swollen eye. And then took the whole shot in one swallow. She whined as it burned and met his eyes as he tried not to look so worried.

He wanted to take the bottle from her but she was pouring another. "This really shouldn't be our fallback."

"Problem solver," she agreed. Or disagreed. Hard to tell if she was heeding his warning or damning it.

"You're drunk." He snagged the fireball from her fingers and knocked it back himself, gasping as it burned burned burned. "Damn. Who knew the Canadians had it in them."

"What?" she mumbled, lips thinning as she glared at him for the drink-stealing.

"Canadian. Fireball whiskey is cinnamon flavored Canadian whiskey."

"Shut up, Castle. You owe me a drink, not a lesson."

"I owe you a _lesson_ too, don't I?"

"I deserve to be punished."

He raised the empty shot glass in salute but something was off in his execution and his arm slammed back down to the bar, rattling his teeth.

"You're drunk too," she said, sounding surprised.

He tilted his head, thought about it. "Haven't stripped off my clothes yet, so no."

She didn't laugh. "Well, I am," she answered. "And whiskey makes me mean, so - beware."

"Not afraid of you."

"Should be. What I did to us." She slapped her hand over his and captured the empty glass, poured a sloshy fireball into it. And over the bar. He was gonna have to clean this up; they were supposed to be closing it down.

"Let's go downstairs," he muttered. "While we still can."

"Might have to hold my arm," she said, tipping back on the bar stool. Hold her arm? He had to catch her, too late, and she toppled into his chest as the stool went out from under her.

Her high-heeled boots caught in the rungs and she gasped, arching as her ankles twisted. He tried to help, but she had the bottle, and he had her arm and a glass and the stool and his own balance and not enough hands.

She fell.

He went down with her.

The bottle hit his chest and rolled along the floor, came to a stop at the wooden kickplate of the bar. He watched the liquid slosh back and forth in the bottle, amber with hints of fire.

He was flat on his back. She was beside him.

Beckett grunted and flopped an arm on his chest, got a weak fistful of his shirt.

"We gotta stop doing this to each other," she muttered.

"Yeah."

"I fall; you fall." Her grip on his collar twisted and suddenly she was rolling sloppily on top of him, her breath laced with cinnamon hell.

"Stop falling then," he told her.

"I'm usually not so clumsy."

"Graceful," he admitted, lifting a hand to touch the bruise below her eye. "Except when it comes to matters of the heart. You're quite accident prone - falling for me."

"Shut up," she sighed. And slumped down for a kiss.

She tasted like heaven.

He wasn't nearly drunk enough for sad Kate tonight. Or for hot and heavy on the barroom floor.

Sex wouldn't solve their problems either. They seemed destined to go on like this, Beckett taking the brunt of the repercussions for this secret investigation, shielding him when it was never what he'd wanted.

He cupped the back of her head and tugged her away, gathering her warm and loose body against him as he sat upright. "Off the floor," he told her roughly. "Office downstairs."

"Carry me," she moaned, mouth fusing to his again, rapid and undeniable, that venturing hand.

It took effort - coordination he didn't have and grace that always deserted him when she touched and rolled and writhed - but he stood up with her legs wrapped around his hips and her whimpers in his ear.

If this was the only way to shield her, if this was the only way to disperse the hits she kept taking, he would do it.

He would carry her downstairs and make her forget the black eye and the way it had all gone so wrong.

—–


	139. out of coffee

**#172**

* * *

 _Oh, you're still doing 3 word prompts! Here's one: out of coffee._

 _— ENCANTADAA_

* * *

" _What?!"_

Castle jerked, chin retracting as his whole body responded to Beckett's screech. "I've never heard that sound come out of your mouth."

"There's no _coffee_?"

"Here," he clarified, leaning forward once more, intending to push her back down to the mattress. "I'm sure the world still has coffee." He kissed her neck, skimmed his hand-

She twisted his thumb and shoved him off her. "The _world_ has coffee but we do not. You're not getting any until I get any."

"Grammatically, that sentence-"

She kneed him - his thigh, thank God, he had moved in time - and shoved to roll herself on top of him. "I'm taking a shower. You are getting coffee. If you know what's good for you."

She rose. Empress from the multitudes, Venus from the sea-

Slapped his face, lightly, with a lifted eyebrow. "Don't get distracted."

"It's just that you're beautiful when you're cranky." And at the risk of his own life - or family jewels - he caught her wrist and tugged her back into him. Hard enough that she stumbled, made off-balanced by her body's changes. "Besides, it's not like you can have _that_ much coffee."

She kissed him, even though nothing he'd said should have engendered that response. Recent behavior suggested that she would have turned on him, but instead her mouth was hot and wanting and a little desperate.

"What's this?" he grunted, letting his hips lift as she tugged at his boxers.

"Pregnancy hormones," she growled against his mouth. "Coffee later, you now."

—–


	140. period cramps Post-couple

**#173**

* * *

 _Prompt: period cramps. Post-couple._

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

She wakes at two in the morning, sweat-drenched, the hard ache across her pelvis like a fist smashed into her guts.

Assault by menstruation, she thinks, and works to slide her feet out of bed.

Castle's arm falls to the mattress, though she doesn't recall him being that close, and he mumbles in his sleep and turns over, winding up on his back.

She moves reluctantly in the cold, her body hunched over, toes curling, her head muddled with the sleep she still longs for. But she's not in her apartment, she's in his, and she doesn't know where everything is.

He has women here. There ought to be something, but the bathroom is filled with hair care products and a disturbing number of _her_ shower gel and conditioner (has he been hoarding it?), but no tampons, no pills, no heating pad.

She gives up, disgusted, aching, feeling the beginning of thickness and release and blood, and she goes back through the bedroom to find her bag still by the front door. Rooting around inside, the darkness of the loft leaves deep shadows, and she has to go by touch, disgusted with herself for so much black silk and not enough emergency supplies.

A lone tampon in the bottom of the leather duffle, but she finds two more in her messenger bag, a grand total of three.

Three.

She squints towards the clock on the oven, makes out the time, tries to calculate how long she has before she's forced out for a box of them. Will she make it to the precinct tomorrow? Maybe. Dicey. But maybe. They're supers.

Staining his sheets is decidedly not sexy. She should probably go now, change clothes, shamble down to the pharmacy a few blocks over, get everything she needs and leave it here.

Oh, God, are they doing this? Is she leaving tampons in his bathroom and _telling_ him or is she sneaking them in and hoping he doesn't say anything? His daughter and mother - she should check Alexis's bathroom upstairs, and she would if she thought she could, if it's at all her place, and how did this get so damn complicated in the span of a night?

"What're you doing up?"

She flinches and twists around, still hunched on the floor before her bag because she dreads standing up straight, and Castle is rubbing his eyes in the doorway of his office, hair sticking up funny on one side, bleary and sleep-smudged.

"You leaving?" A peculiar, whining tone to his voice that nevertheless catches her breath.

"Um. Might have to," she admits.

He takes two steps closer, stops, rocking back on his heels as if holding himself in check. "You get a call?"

"No. Not unless you count the call of nature," she sighs, letting herself sink back against the hall closet, her knees drawn up to her chest. She holds up the three tampons. Wordless.

He grunts and it sounds like a laugh. Is he laughing? He's moving into the living room with ease now, combing his hair down with one hand, offering her the other.

He grips her wrist and hauls her to her feet, but _damn_ does that hurt, like a cord being plucked.

"Call of nature, clever," he murmurs. His kiss is awkwardly dopey under her eye. "There's Aleve in the medicine cabinet - in the kitchen - and three different kind of heating pads in the closet right behind you. Guess you didn't find those."

"Heating pad," she mumbles. "Aleve. All very good things."

"I'll gather everything up, nuke the heating pads, water, pain reliever, one of the spare boxes. You go. Bathroom, bed."

"Spare boxes?" she says faintly, a little weird hope.

"I live with women, Beckett. We have loads of supplies. Are you a super or a regular?"

She grunts, but yeah, she's laughing, catching the look in his eyes and the wriggle of his eyebrows. "Super," she gives back.

"Of course you are." He's releasing her to the night, stepping around her messy, clumsy body. "Super it is."

She watches him head for the kitchen, in nothing but wrinkled boxers, warm skin she can still feel under her hands. She takes a cautious step towards the bedroom, knowing she needs to get to the bathroom fast, but she hesitates.

"You were the one who had the talk with Alexis, weren't you?" she calls out. Quietly. But certain.

His head turns to her. "This and every other talk." He shrugs, collecting a glass and a pill bottle from the cabinet. "Scarred her for life, I'm sure."

"No," she denies, shaking her head. Her body might feel like shit, but she knows he'll wrap himself around her in bed, adjust the heating pads across the tops of her thighs, her hips. He'll be amazing and funny and sweet. "You made it normal for her, Rick. You made it just fine."

He's paused in the kitchen, arrested, and she knows it's not _I love you_ back, but it's still words he needed to hear.

—–


	141. Castle gets shot

**#174 & #189**

* * *

 _Three word prompt: Castle gets shot_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

"Whoops."

"You're gonna be fine, gonna be fine," she whispers, bowed over his body as her team rushes forward into the breach. His blood is hot and fast, echoing the pounding of her heart.

"My bad," he garbles. His breath wheezes out of him.

"Not your fault somebody shot you." She finishes wrapping her NYPD windbreaker around his arm, tightens the sleeves to cut off as much circulation as possible. He groans.

"Supposed to stay back," he mumbles. Shock. He's going into shock, his face bleached white, his lips blue, his words slurred.

Kate lightly slaps his cheeks. "Babe. You need to open your eyes."

"I'm okay," he says. He's struggling to sit up, and she helps if only to keep him from falling over. Rick puts his back to the wall and swallows hard, his eyes flaring open finally. "I'm okay."

"Relatively speaking," she snaps. Presses her lips together to keep the anger out of her voice.

"My fault," he says again.

This time she has nothing. Instead, she tightens the makeshift tourniquet on his bicep and then presses Ryan's shirt to the wound.

Castle grunts.

"If you've damaged your manual dexterity," she croaks out. "All these tendons. The bones."

"I still have my tongue."

Kate groans, slumping forward so that her forehead touches his.

"I'm okay," he says again, though his chuckling sounds forced.

Her body is carefully held together by sheer force of will alone, and she knows sometime after the next twenty-four hours are over, when the surgery is done and he's knocked out with painkillers, she's going to weep over him.

Until then, she can't.

* * *

 _Three word prompt: continuation of #174 - weeping over him._

 _— LEUSKA_

* * *

It comes sooner than she thought.

He's lying on a gurney in the hall of the Emergency Department, his face blanched and his eyes closed, when the hot sting comes into her own.

She swallows hard and turns her head away, breathing rapidly to keep it down.

He's fine - will be fine. They're waiting for a bed to open up. The triage nurse packed the wound and dressed it, and it's just a matter of a bed and a surgeon being called in to assess things. It's going to be fine.

A tear slips down her cheek and she gasps for breath, but it's no use. Her eyes are rebelling, hot and salty and pooling in the corners of her mouth, faster and faster until she's struggling to breathe at all.

And then she chokes on her tears and his eyes flare open, staring at her. Kate bows her head forward over him, struggling with it, but the sobs are ugly now, and loud, and she's staining his already-stained shirt with her tears.

His good hand reaches across his body and lands at the back of her head, sinks his fingers in her hair and scratches at her scalp.

She weeps. Everything falling out of her, the whole terrible dread she's carried since she was shot in the chest years ago, the dread that he would be next, that she's painted a target on him just by loving him so damn much.

He must be talking, she can feel the vibration of his voice where her forehead rests at his sternum, but she can't hear him over her own ragged breaths.

A hand comes to her shoulder and she jerks upright, turns beside the gurney to find a nurse in blue scrubs.

"We have a bed available. Are you - okay?"

"Fine," she croaks, dashing away her tears with the back of her hand.

"She'll be fine," Castle says, his chest rumbling with it. "I scared her."

She blinks hard through the burn of more tears, swallows it back, trying to straighten up and look professional again.

The nurse gives her a side-eyed look, but addresses Castle. "I'm going to wheel you into a room, the surgery consult has already been called, and we'll get you patched up within the hour."

Kate follows behind, mute, still terrified somewhere deep inside her.

—–


	142. Problems with me

**#176 (set during their 'separation')**

* * *

 _"Problems with...me"_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

She's cool when she wakes, the slight chill of air conditioning in the air. This has been the first week they've needed it, but it's never been so evident as this morning, the sun cracking the bowl of the sky and spilling its yolk across the world.

She's alone.

Kate slides out of bed, goose bumps rising as she does. The sheets are cool, so he's been long gone, but the bathroom light is off and the loft is quiet.

His robe is in its usual place, but she stutters, realizing hers isn't here. The rental place, most likely, though she hates when she forgets these little things, the things that ought to be here if she were truly here.

Instead, she finds one of his Oxford shirts to draw on over the t-shirt he loaned her last night. She meant to bring a bag, but the case, the whole _week_ , and this is getting old.

Kate slides out of the room in the flaring light of dawn, taking careful steps to listen for signs of occupancy. His mother has come by a little too often for Kate's security, and there is always the random Alexis drop-in to be wary of.

But it's only him, sitting before the windows in a dining room chair pulled up to the light.

Kate pauses in the entryway, leans a shoulder against the wood. He's leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands dangling, head bowed. It's not a reassuring picture.

"I know you're there."

She lifts from the door and moves forward, comes to him, sliding her arm around his shoulders. He leans into her instead, his head heavy at her hip, and Kate scratches his scalp until he sighs.

"You're up early," she says.

"Couldn't sleep."

She combs her fingers through his hair, letting silence work its magic.

"Just. Problems." He sighs and sits back in the chair, out of her touch, and he rubs both hands down his face. "Problems I can't solve."

"Problems… with me?"

He glances at her. "Only in that it's a together kind of problem rather than a solitary one."

"What?"

"Not with _you_ , but yeah, _with_ you."

"Well, that really clears things up."

"Are you wearing another one of my shirts?"

She huffs and drags out a dining room chair, sits down beside him, propping her bare feet up on the window sill. The sunlight is yellow now, beginning to warm the room. "So talk to me, Rick. And yes, it's your shirt. I told you I forgot the bag of stuff."

"Yeah," he says, shoulders slumping. "That's one of them."

"Fine," she flares, sits forward to begin disrobing. Castle scowls at her and lays his hand on her arm, pressing her down, making her cease.

"Our mutual problems which include, way down the list, your things not being in _our_ home. Keep the shirt. Keep all my stupid shirts, Kate. Sometimes I'd like to look around the place and know you're coming back. If only for a bag of stuff left behind."

She stays silent, letting that ride between them, drift and settle in the eddies coming from the air conditioning.

"Problems," she says finally. "Does it help if I say I don't much like it either? Wanting to come home… all the time."

He turns his head to her and immediately reaches out, taking her hand, drawing it into him. "You're home."

"And yet," she whispers, trying for a smile but falling flat. "I'm not."

"Come here," he says roughly, tugging.

She slides out of her chair and onto his wide-spread thighs, his arms coming around her. His lips brush her neck and she's surprised - as she always is - by how she fits against him.

Her head tucks down between his shoulder and neck, and his arm loops loosely around her hip.

The sunlight fills the room, pinks, yellows, the strange blue-purple of clouds on the horizon which make the whole scene striking.

She feels his chest rise and fall with a breath.

"You're home," he says. "You know you're always home with me."

—–


	143. Kate pregnant hurt

**#179** (Misconception Universe)

* * *

Prompt: Kate pregnant hurt(physically)

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

Blue lights are no fun at all when the emergency is your own.

Castle grips the handle overhead as the police car careens around the corner and roars down the block. Ryan's control of the beast of an engine is impressive, or would be in any other circumstances, but Castle is on the edge of his own control and can barely appreciate it.

"Here we are, here we are," Ryan chants, the car screeching as it slides into the emergency bay of the hospital.

Castle is already tearing out of his seatbelt and yanking open the door before the car comes to a complete stop. He races around the hood and darts for the double doors, has to pause a moment for the automatic open to catch up to his pace.

"Come on, come on," he groans, bouncing on his toes. She was yelling at him only yesterday, furious with him for dictating her every move, sick of his meddling.

Over some damn fruit. He brought fruit to the precinct. What? It's healthy. She's been forgetting the prenatal vitamin, taking it at odd hours when she remembers. He was only trying to help.

She spent the night at her place, first time in weeks.

" _Come on,"_ he groans.

The doors finally widen enough for him to turn and slip inside, and Rick leaves Ryan in the dust, launching himself towards the front desk.

"Detective Beckett," he pants, clutching the formica counter. "Admitted - bleeding - pregnant - Beckett?"

"Hang on, sir. Deep breath. Say it one more time-"

"Detective Beckett," he wheezes. "Admitted twenty minutes ago. She's my - she's pregnant. I'm Rick. Castle."

"Okay. Rick. I need you to sign some forms, and make a copy of your insurance card."

"Forms?" he croaks. His hands tighten in a reflexive urge to strangle the woman at the desk, but she holds the keys to Kate. "Forms. I - can I not fill out your forms while we walk? Or - is she in surgery?"

 _Please, no. Please._

The woman blinks, taking in his persistence with a brief flash of confusion. "Oh. Surgery? No. She's fine. Waiting on stitches. Mr. Castle, she's just fine."

His whole body lets down, high-alert to mild alert, but the wash of relief doesn't come. It just won't abate. She threw up her hands yesterday, told him he was being impossible, and now she's in the hospital.

"I appreciate your assurance," he says tightly. "But I'd really like to see my wife right now." He presses his lips together on the lie, biting back the urge to explain everything, how long he's waited for her, how messed up their beginnings, how she _left a note_ he never received, how he gave up prematurely, how they've created this life out of what were ashes and managed an equilibrium that is at once so stable and also so precarious. How he irritates her to death and she frustrates the hell out of him, but she's having his baby and he will do _anything_ it takes.

But this desk nurse wants him to fill in boxes on a sheet, wants him to sit down in a hard plastic chair with his knees cramped and wait.

He's done with waiting.

"Where is Kate?"

"Mr. Castle, alright, I can see you're agitated. How about we-"

"How about we walk down to Kate's room? Where she's still waiting. She's a cop, you know. And she's pregnant-"

"I do believe you've said that." And then a faint smile stains her lips. "I take it this is your first."

His mouth opens and nothing comes out. It's not, but it is. If 'your' is a plural and not a singular. If they take into account the fact that this is the most important thing he's done in-

"Wait, you're _the_ Richard Castle?" The woman stands up straighter. "Don't you have a daughter?"

He's done. Conversation over. "I'll find her myself," he growls, turning on his heel and striding off.

"Hey, wait! You can't go back there-"

"Too late. I'm going back there." He shoves open the double doors and they swing back, smack the walls hard enough to scuff the paint. He keeps going, calling her name and ducking into doorways, twitching aside curtains.

The nurse has followed him, snapping a warning, but not even her warning can bring him up short. She finally darts around him and gestures sharply towards a side hall, stabbing her finger.

"This way."

He follows along like a good boy now, treading on her heels when she's too slow for him. But finally she opens a door and he catches a glimpse of a dark head, pale skin, the harsh slash of a mouth he knows so well.

"Beckett," he breathes, maybe for the first time. He rushes inside, ignoring the nurse entirely, only to halt at the foot of the bed, shock jolting through him.

"It's okay," she croaks. "Looks worse than it is."

"You're soaked in blood," he gasps.

Her smile is wan, too thin for that _it's okay_. "Knife barely-"

"There was a _knife_? What happened to not going out with the tactical team?"

She narrows her eyes at him, like he's done something wrong. "Castle," she bites out. "Let me stop you right there. I've had enough of the lectures from you on how to care for my own body. It was a _steak_ knife. In the break room." _You asshole_ goes unsaid, but it rings clearly in the room.

His feet finally unstick at the ice in her tone - that's his Beckett - and he comes clumsily to her side. She has one hand raised above her head, bandaged thickly, but somehow the blood has soaked her midriff, the collar, one shoulder.

"What - how - why haven't you seen a doctor yet?" he gets out finally. Someone needs to do an ultrasound. Just to be sure. There's a lot of blood.

"Stop looking at me like that," she snaps. "I'm not going to die." And then seeing his face she rolls her eyes and reaches across her body to sock him in the arm. "And the baby is _fine_ , Castle. It's my hand. Not my-" She pauses and her mouth drops open, pink suffusing her cheeks, her neck.

And he knows how far down that blush goes. How the scar between her breasts whitens while the unblemished skin mottles with color.

"Oh," she whispers. "You were really worried."

He takes in what might be his first clean breath of the afternoon. "I just - sometimes, Beckett." He shakes his head. "Things happen to us."

"No tactical teams," she reminds him. "And no suspect arrests. I'm stuck with interrogations and cold calls, Rick. This was your stupid piece of cantaloupe."

He nods, swallowing. Her good hand reaches for him again but this time she snags the cuff of his dress shirt and tugs until their foreheads crash together.

She smells like iron, like blood, and he has to close his eyes. "Wait. Cantaloupe. The one I left there yesterday for you?" The one that prompted the big blow-up.

"Yeah. You said five servings of fruits and vegetables. See? I really am listening. I really am _trying_."

"So this is all my fault. Next time I'm cutting up your damn fruit."

"If you start cutting up my food, Castle, I will kill you. With that dull knife from the break room. Joyfully."

His laughter breaks out of him; his shoulders slump in relief. He straightens up, squeezes her knee in the bed. "Let me see if I can find a doctor around here. The service in this place is atrocious."

"Don't be too annoying, Rick." But she's smiling at him, the tentative one, the one that asks _did we do okay?_

"Be as annoying as it takes to get the job done." He winks at her as he turns for the door. "You know a little something about that."

She smirks, glances suggestively down his body. "I wouldn't call it little."

He grins back, gesture the faint thickening of her abdomen. "Size of a bell pepper, Beckett. I'd call it little."

Her good hand flattens to her stomach, her smile stretches out like sunrise. "A bell pepper?"

He comes back to her, presses his lips against her upturned mouth. "Yeah, eighteen weeks. I have a fruit chart."

She laughs. "Of course you do." She taps his cheek lightly with her own. "Go find me a doctor. I want to get out of here, see that fruit chart." She softly kisses the corner of his mouth. "In case that wasn't clear. I want you to take me home."

—–


	144. Beckett getting stitches

**#180** (following #179, in the Misconception Universe)

* * *

Prompt: Beckett getting stitches. Thanks!

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

Kate watches him as the intern drapes a blue paper-thin sheet over her hand. Castle's face is a hard knot, like the warped places on a tree where blight and adversity - where damage - has caused uneven growth. He's that now, shuttering his eyes and closing his mouth to keep himself even.

It was only a stupid accident. The melon. Running the knife into the webbing between her thumb and forefinger. The way the blood was everywhere before she even knew it had happened.

He has a tight grip on her knee where he sits beside her. He's leaning in to watch the procedure, the intern injecting her hand with a numbing agent, a name she didn't try to hang onto, and yet Castle is rigid and anxious in the chair.

She shifts and his eyes dart to hers, alert, wary, waiting for her. She gives him a smile and lays her uninjured hand on his forearm, stroking the soft hair.

"Hey," she says quietly. "Stop."

His shoulders hunch near his ears like a little boy. Everything reminds her of little boys. If she believed in mother's intuition, she would tell him what she already knows: _it's a boy._

Of course she doesn't know. She doesn't. She just…

"I'm stopping," he says softly.

She sucks in a breath as something on her hand is tugged, turns her head to look. The blue sheet is draped over her hand and obscuring her view, but she leans forward and sees the angry black stitches, and now the intern is pulling the thread taut and going back to needle her skin.

Castle makes a noise. Disbelief maybe. Curiosity, because they both lean in to look.

The doctor-in-training, a kid really, glances up. "Lean back, please."

She sighs and sits back against the raised head of the bed, giving Castle a quirk of her lips. "Don't let him put his initials in there."

The kid squawks. "I would never-"

"How about my initials?" Castle parries, ignoring the doc just as she is.

She tilts her head. "So I can have a C-shaped scar?"

"A C is too easy. This one-" His finger touches the button on her shirt. "-this one is basically a C."

"It's an oval, if anything-"

"An _R_. That would be difficult. Hey, kid, you think you can make an R?"

The intern drops his head to his work in a dogged determination not to let them ruffle his feathers.

Kate slides a smile towards Rick, a crooked one for all the shit he's been putting her through since she first told him she was pregnant. He's high-handed in the extreme, and she thinks he knows it.

He's trying.

She can try too.

The kid clears his throat. "I'm almost done. You really want initials, I can do the baby's name."

Castle laughs first, his face splitting wide with his grin, eyes crinkling deep, so deep she loses herself a little in how happy he is.

It reminds her to be happy too.

 _It's a boy_ , she thinks. It has to be.

"Haven't got a clue," Castle tells the intern. "Guess she'll make do with a straight line."

"Well, it's more like an arrow," the kid shrugs.

"To my heart," Castle sighs.

She and the kid both roll their eyes.

But okay. Yeah. To her heart.

—–


	145. James in danger

**#181**

* * *

James in danger

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

"Where's James?"

Beckett jerked upright and spun to see her husband entering the command center. "What do you mean?"

"Where is he, physically, right now," Castle snapped. He was shoving Omkar out of the chair and taking over the work station.

"How the _fuck_ should I know that?" she hissed, darting to the back of the room where Omkar was standing awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. She hurried around the work station and gripped the heavy-duty rubber shield that kept Omkar's screen from public view. "He's at _school_ , Rick." _Which you insisted on._

"Yes, I realize. I mean. At one-fifteen in the afternoon, where precisely is our son? Is this recess, music, fucking snack time, what the fuck is he doing right now?" Castle was calling up a satellite. What the fuck. What the _fuck_.

"What's going on." She snagged his wrist, hampering his movement though not at all hindering. "Tell me. What is going on."

"I received a photo."

She froze.

"I do not know from where."

Her heart was in her throat, the bottom dropping out of her stomach, and before she knew it, she was controlled collapsing onto the top of Omkar's station.

Castle squeezed her knee once, quickly, and went back to the satellite management software, inputting command codes to change the trajectory of one of their drones.

"Omkar, leave us," she got out, not looking. "Everyone. Clear the room." But Omkar obeyed first, and a shuffling of feet and utter quiet told her the command center was theirs. She gripped the edge of the work station and tried to breathe. "Was it Black."

"I - hope to fucking hell it was," Castle whispered.

He was not even _three_. Not even three years old and Castle had insisted the boy learn how to make friends. Only for the summer, only a summer program, they called it school, he was so thrilled to be going to school, he woke up before them and pulled his backpack on and ate breakfast like that, beaming and oh God-

"Here it is, here." Castle's fingers dug into her knee and she swiveled her head automatically, a cold panic already burning acid in her guts.

The photograph was through a long-range lens. That was first, the first clue, a long-range camera zoomed in too far to be of quality. Next was the fact that James wasn't centered in the image - he was in a line of his class mates as they were being led through Central Park. Finally, she was relieved to note that she could, in fact, see Reese in the photo as he followed the group.

Field trip today? No. "That was Tuesday," she said finally, letting out a breath. "Field trip to the zoo. Remember-"

Castle grunted. "Right." His head bowed straight into her lap where she was perched on the desk. "Hell."

She cupped the back of his head, but her fingers were clammy. "It was your father. He's here."

Castle groaned and lifted his head, stared up at her. "He could have fucking _said_. Signed the fucking-" Castle snarled and jerked to his feet, swung around, slammed his fist into the wall.

The whole place seemed to shake. But she didn't react. Instead, she took her phone out of her pocket and called Reese.

Mitchell's security team answered immediately.

"Reese, I need you to do a physical head check for me, please. Let me know when you have him in your sight."

"Yes, ma'am."

She waited, saw Castle nursing his fist with dark rage in his brow, but watching her, waiting with her. She held out a hand to him and he came, laced their fingers together with his breaths harsh and wild in her ear.

"Yes, ma'am, affirmative. Echo is in my field. Shall I take over for Fredricks?"

"Fredricks is on?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She glanced at the computer screen where the photo was still prominent, her son in a ragged line, arms stretched between two other boys, his friends, his little friends.

"Yes, Reese. If you would. Take over his shift and-"

"I'll stay until you tell me otherwise, ma'am."

She closed her eyes, took a breath. "Thank you."

The call ended and she straightened her spine, opened her eyes to her husband. "Reese has him. He'll stay."

With that, Castle's focus turned to the work. "A thousand yards away, someone was taking this photograph."

"Tuesday," she reinforced.

Castle was on a mission, and she knew he wouldn't rest until he'd exhausted every possibility. If it was Black, there were a whole new set of problems - but they were problems that wouldn't mean their son was in danger.

If this had been anyone else, they were already dead.

"I will fix this, Kate."

She gave a startled cry. "No. It's not - this is not your fault. This is just _life_. And I know you will fight with every super fiber of your being to protect us."

His eyes glittered, fury and grief both, but she cupped his fist in her hands and kissed the broken skin where he'd slammed his knuckles into the wall.

"And you know I will too," she promised. She lifted her head, pressed his hand to her chest. "And Reese. My father. Mitchell. Espo and Ryan and Reynolds and even your own mother, Rick. Even _she_ would fight for him, for us. So don't fall off the cliff yet, sweetheart. We are going to be okay."

—–


	146. Where is Beckett

**#182**

* * *

Where is Beckett

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

Castle cracked open an eye.

No light. No Beckett.

Fine. Still night. Didn't matter.

He rolled over and closed his eyes, middle of the bed, sinking into the mattress and letting it go.

He had two more slow breaths, letting his heartbeat settle, before he realized it wasn't fine.

It did matter.

Middle of the night and no Beckett was a sadly all too normal thing, but it didn't mean he was off the hook here. She had insomnia, and she couldn't turn her brain off, and she didn't want to wake him, but sometimes there actually was something he could do about it, if only to guilt her into coming back to bed and letting exhaustion have its way with her.

Castle groaned and forced himself up, pushing off the mattress to get his feet under him. He stumbled on his way to his robe, his limbs in that middle of the night not functional state. He tied off the belt and shuffled through to the living room.

"Kate," he scraped out, rubbing both hands down his face, not quite paying attention. He was greeted with silence. When his hands dropped, she wasn't in the living room.

She wasn't anywhere in sight.

Huh.

He spun in a slow, fumbling circle but she wasn't in the living room, wasn't within his horizon.

"Kate?"

Was Alexis spending the night? No. And his mother was at her place.

"Kate?" he said, louder now. He poked his nose into the hall, and then back through the kitchen to the laundry. No, though he had a whole load in the basket he hadn't folded and put away yet. He couldn't even remember when he'd done it, how long ago it had been since he'd had the time or inclination to take care of things around the house.

He was still halfway in body-longing for sleep and mixed up signals with the laundry when he turned around for the stairs.

And there she was. Curled up in one of the armchairs before the cold fireplace under the stairs.

He knew better than to wake her. If she'd found sleep, it was hard-fought and easily-lost.

Instead, he took the lap blanket from the edge of the couch and brought it back to her, lightly covered her shoulders.

She didn't even twitch.

Castle leaned over her and softly kissed her forehead.

Now he could sink into his own mattress, middle of the bed and cover hog, and feel no compunction about turning over and falling right to sleep.

She'd wake him with coffee in the morning, her own way of easing her conscience over her nocturnal wanderings, and he would at least feel like he'd done something to deserve it.

—–


	147. Kate wants babies

**#184 (season 8 references)**

* * *

Kate wants babies

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

It's not even a human baby, it's just a tiny palm-of-her-hand baby bunny with his skewed ears and rapidly-working nose and big eyes that stare up at her in equal parts fright and curiosity.

It's a rabbit. It shouldn't do this to her.

Make her stomach drop out with something that feels like facing a bullet all while her heart pulses in beats too big for her body and the blood drains from her face.

It feels like the moment he first said _I love you, Kate_ and she was dying.

Maybe love and want bound so tightly together like this always feels like dying, maybe she just didn't know any differently, know any better, because cupping the baby rabbit in her hands and feeling the warm life of it bump and move and breathe against her own skin is like holding her own heart.

Or his heart.

Or their one beating heart, blood-soaked and raw.

She has to put it down, release it back to the hutch with its furball siblings and the placid, unmoving momma rabbit. She has to step back and put distance, even while her fingers rub together in the phantom touch of shed fur caught against her skin.

"You okay?" he says, a hand at her lower back and his head tilted towards her.

She watches the bunnies wriggling together and squirming around each other and tripping as they attempt to hop, all that life teeming at her feet. And then she lifts her chin and finds Castle's eyes on her.

"I want babies. Our babies." She tries again, breathless, stepping into him because away is impossible right now. "I want kids with you and if it's not right now then when will it ever-?"

"Hey, whoa, hang on," he chokes out, catching her by the shoulders. But he grips her, tugs her into him, chest to chest as they both try to breathe. "Kate. Timing couldn't be worse here. This investigation is-"

"Dangerous, I know," she cries. "I _know_. What is wrong with me? I'm broken, Castle. I have got to be _cracked_. A rabbit has shattered me. But I can't not - not have this. We were supposed to get married and have babies and instead-"

"I ran."

She freezes. Her breath is like ice when it finally comes. "No-" she tries faintly.

His hands grip her shoulders. "I know what I did. I ran. To protect you. And it wrecked everything."

"It's not wrecked. We're not wrecked." She can't find the words to hang on to this, the feeling that moves through her like terrible certainty. "We're not wrecked. But you said we just have to do it. We wanted to get married so we got married, even if we weren't-"

"You mean just _have babies?"_ His voice is a squeak and he jerks his head back, clears his throat. "Kate. You mean just do it anyway. Just pretend it doesn't matter and-"

"Yes." It surges up inside her once more - _if not now then when when when_ \- and Castle lets go of her.

Steps back.

Just like she did to the baby bunny. Trying to put distance between herself and the thing she wants so badly it's like a craving.

An urge.

As vital as breath and water and Castle-

He's trying to be rational, but she can see he's doomed as well. She's infected him. He's a goner.

"Okay," he says. "Let's do it. Let's have babies."

—–


	148. Beckett birth boys

**#186** (AU Spy Castle - AKA Spy Trauma)

Warning: This is pretty trigger-y

* * *

Fic prompt: Beckett birth boys (how did the twins enter this world, and what did Black do to her?)

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

Kate didn't want to need his help, but she needed his help. She had to fight the urge to sit down and never get up again.

She felt bad. Sick inside. There was blood on the handle of the scalpel and it was sticky now, and on her hands, soaking through the hospital gown.

But she was free. She wasn't giving up now. She was so damn close to getting out of here; all she needed were those two boys. All she needed.

(She hadn't thought this far through the plan. She hadn't expected to make it out of the surgery room alive. She had thought only to kill John Black, take him out with her, but now he was dead and she was living still and she was bleeding.)

She might be going into shock. She was propelling herself forward on sheer will power alone.

She didn't want the boys to see her like this.

When the soldier - he'd called himself Castle - when Castle got to the junction, when it was go right or go left, she grabbed his arm and kept him from going right.

"They're this way," he said. "I saw the door."

"I need clothes first. This way. You said - everyone is dead?"

He gave her a grim look.

"So there's no one - no one left to take them," she said, reminding herself. No one would take the boys. But her. She was taking those boys.

"There's no one left," he said, shrugging.

"You have to be more sure than that," she told him. "Because five people have access to that room. Five-"

"And one of them is dead. Who else?"

"A doctor. Saber-"

"He's dead," Castle said. His eyes were so blue with that smear of blood down his cheek. "He was my doc too. I didn't expect him to be here, but he was asleep in one of the dorms."

His doc. Saber had been- "You shot him."

"In the back of the head."

"You executed him."

His eyes were flint now. He didn't respond.

"It's not a judgment," she said. "I just murdered your father. It's not a judgment."

He flinched, very badly, the emotion moving through his whole body.

She could understand that. And the resistance seemed more real than the flat affect he'd been carrying, the dull blankness carved into the lines of his face.

"I need clothes," she told him. "And some - there are a couple things. This way first."

"All right. Let me contact my brother. Colin. So he doesn't mistake us. I never intended to go back to this wing."

She waited in the junction, an urgent desire to _run_ frothing in her blood. Now that she was - so close - so close. Part of her wanted to hitchhike and beg her way across the state until she got to New York City and just - back to Washington Heights where her mother was bleeding to death in an alley, the last Kate had seen of her.

But she knew her mother was long gone. Long, long gone. And her father-

Kate pressed her hand into her eyes. Castle was on a phone, or a walkie, something; she could hear very soft conversation.

A brother. He had a brother. He'd said he'd been the same, him and his brothers were the same as those boys.

"It's clear," he said, and his hand came to her raised elbow, brought her hand down from her face. "We can move out."

No one had touched her so kindly. For so long. God, it was embarrassing, the way her body flooded with such grateful surprise.

She swallowed hard and nodded, moving away from his touch and down the hallway. She had walked this place for years, moved to the facility once her training had started in earnest - the program's 'diet' and regimen. The pills, the supplements, the fortified shit that had, at first, made her feel so damn strong.

She had thought, _I can kill that bastard now._ The Army Special Forces assassin who had stabbed her mother. At first, it had been the only thing to keep her going. She had resisted at every turn, murdered three of them when she could - to prove to herself that she could do it, that she could do what was necessary when the time came to leave, when she had enough knowledge to mete out justice.

And then one day, nearly two years ago, they had put in an IV and it hadn't been the usual elixir. She had realized too late it was knocking her out, had ripped the line from her vein, crawled out of the bed only to collapse at the locked door.

She had woken up in restraints. Feeling bruised between her legs, violated with an intensity she felt in every bone.

Violated. And no one had said a word. Breathed not a single word to her about it. She asked, oh _God_ , she had asked. _What did you do to me?_ But never in her - never had she thought-

And while the elixir had kept coming, the vitamins and shit, the sparring sessions had been canceled and the workouts they put her through had been toned down. What she'd thought of as training had ceased. She was no longer a candidate, she was meat.

She had tried to push those imposed limitations herself but they'd caught her at it and restrained her at night in the room. They had prevented her from training, they had withdrawn her support, until all that had been left was the experimenting.

She had felt it, the way her body had been changing without her realizing. She had felt the heaviness resting in her pelvis and the stretch of her skin, and she had-

"Kate?"

She jerked to attention, horrified to find herself standing in the middle of the hall, dull and worse than useless.

"Is this it?" he asked. His hand at her elbow. Hard face but his eyes gentle.

She glanced to her right. The door of her prison. "Yes," she scraped out. "I - I can't go in." She was shaking; she was trembling like the boys when the needle came.

He was suddenly wrapping his arms around her shoulders. "You don't have to. Tell me what to do. Tell me what you need. I'll go in."

She shoved herself away from him, furious, standing on her own. She was not telling _his_ son where her hiding places were. No.

"I can do it," she said. And then she input the code to her own prison.

The door opened.

—–


	149. Take me back

#188 (early season 8)

AU - idek what is wrong with me

* * *

I love your stories so much Could you please do this one? 'Take me back'.

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

 _I think about you like a poem._

 _The severe white page, the stark black words spaced out, and the tendency  
to be burned  
to the quick, culled and branded by a stanza, mere seared  
meat and flesh, and the odor of charred type: what is in a name and  
the rose did caper on her cheek and  
when lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd and  
the red wheelbarrow, yet  
there I stood a loaded gun._

 _I think about you like a poem._

She folds the paper and presses it against the table and knows - she was not meant to see this. A thing that fluttered like a bird with broken wings from his back pocket as he pulled out his wallet and paid for takeout for the boys, trying to ingratiate himself into the Twelfth all over again, and when she picked it up and thought about handing it over without looking, her own curiosity (no, no, her own desperate longing to have him back) made her open it.

Read it.

A poem he's written about her with poetry, like poetry, herself the poetry.

He's nudging his wallet back into his pocket without looking, eye twinkling as he teases Ryan

 _there I stood a loaded gun_

And she's pressing the scrap of paper with its scribbled lines into her own pocket and moving forward, darting towards the break room where he's laid out the spread, trying to entice her, draw her out, and she's drawn, she's enticed, but not by food.

"Castle," she snaps, and his head comes up, caught out look on his face.

"Come with me," she says roughly, words hard to push out past her closing up throat.

He follows, head down and shoulders hunched, all rebellious boy, scuffing his shoes if they could be scuffed, throwing Esposito dirty looks for the _you'll get it now_.

Disappearing around the hall and turning a corner and it's space enough and time-

She grabs him by the lapels of his jacket and collides. Mouth to mouth, hungry, wanting, sad (she's grieving them even as she rages against the dying) and he surges forward into her kiss, collapsing her back against the wall and barreling his hips into hers to pin her there.

"Kate," he growls into her mouth, ragged, wanting, another man entirely from the one who wheedled his way onto their case this morning. "Kate, I want-"

"Take me back," she gasps, rocking against him. "Take me."

He steps back. She drops hard to her feet on the floor, stunned.

He drags a hand down his face. "Can't take back what I never had."

Her mouth falls open. Her heart.

He turns his head, but his body still remains.

She swallows. "I think about you like a poem - I know by heart. And recite to myself in the darkness-"

His eyes snap back to hers. His hand pushes back into his pocket and he goes still.

She steps into him, draws her arms around his waist. "And worry over to myself, the lines I love, the parts that trouble me, the feeling that wells up-"

"Can I have you this time?" he rumbles, and his hands catch her face, hold her, pin her. "I won't try to tame you. I'll borrow you, like a book of sonnets. I only want to-"

"Read?" she murmurs, eyebrow lifting.

"Read."

"I can be read."

—–


	150. CE28 cottage photo

**#190 Spy Castle Universe**

* * *

 _CE28 cottage photo:_

 _-_ BEDPANSANDBEDFELLOWS

* * *

Kate Beckett watched the trees through the kitchen's bay window, sipped slowly at her coffee. James was hanging on her pant leg, bumping his cheek against her knee, and she dropped a hand to skim the top of his head.

His arm tightened around her leg; she scratched lightly at his scalp and glanced down.

He was sucking his thumb, fingers curled up at his nose, lashes dark on his cheeks. She thumbed his forehead to nudge him back to look at her, and when he did, she lightly tugged his thumb from his mouth.

"Let it go, wolf."

He gave her a shy grin and ducked his head, crashing his whole body into the seam made of her legs. Kate had to hold her coffee aloft to keep it from sloshing, and she took one fast sip before setting it aside.

She squatted down before her son and cupped his face, kissed his nose. "You don't need your thumb. Where's elephant?"

"Mama."

"Mm, not my job to keep track of your toys, JP." She combed the dark hair back from his forehead and stood up again, nudging the back of his head as she started out of the kitchen. "I bet Daddy knows."

James ran off, darting ahead of her towards the living room that opened up off the kitchen, the huge floor-to-ceiling windows that showcased the early morning light. The island was rich with colors, last night's rain had soaked the earth with chroma and the trunks of the trees were dark while the leaves were brilliant greens.

"Oof, morning to you too, wolf."

Kate tore her gaze from the view to see Castle coming up the hall, trying to walk while James rode his feet. "Hey. He's been sucking his thumb. Thought you might know where his elephant is?"

"He's not a morning person either," Castle grinned, winking at her. But he leaned over and hoisted James up into his arms, settled him close. "Are you, little parasite? Mommy's mean to make you get up."

"Mommy?" Kate choked, laughing as James cuddled down into his father's chest. "Mommy isn't the one who keeps saying the wolf needs to be given a schedule, the wolf needs to sleep at night and not during the day-"

"Fine, fine. If you're going to be picky." He leaned in when he approached, kissed her frown. "I don't know where elephant is. In the crib I'd guess?"

"Take him, go find it," she dictated, cupping the side of his face only to tug at his ear. "I'll make you a cup of coffee."

Castle grumbled a little but he twisted out of her grip and headed back the way he'd come, carrying James with him.

Kate turned and headed back for the light-soaked kitchen and the espresso machine. Soon enough, the rest of the household would begin to wake and she wanted some quality time with her boys.

Even if that meant rousting her son at six in the morning when the sun had only just cracked the sky.

Besides, he was cuddly in the morning, and she liked having him close.

Oh, and James too.

—–


	151. Enough Adele already

#191 (season 2 timeline)

* * *

 _Enough Adele already_

 _— AWESOMEBAZAN27_

* * *

If she has to listen to this damn song one more time-

No. He brought his _laptop_ to stare mournfully at the online critic's column and bemoan Nikki Heat's fate. He brought his whole entire _laptop._

Nope. Done.

Kate Beckett stalks through the bullpen and violently shuts the lid of Castle's laptop. The music cuts off. The whole precinct has turned to stare at them.

"Enough Adele," she threatens. "No more wallowing."

He looks up blearily, his eyes bloodshot.

She narrows hers. "Were you _crying_?" Trying not to let everyone else in the bullpen overhear. "Tell me you aren't-"

"No," he grumbles. Won't look at her. "Not _crying_. In _public."_

"You better not be crying over some asshole taking up column space."

"For the **New York Times Review of B** -"

"Doesn't matter who published it. It's still mean-spirited and inaccurate-"

"It's not a playground bully sniping at me. It's a well-read and highly respected-"

"Castle," she growls, planting her hands on her desk to glare at him. "You do _not_ get to hold one _little_ man's opinion higher than mine. I _am_ Nikki Heat. Every time I read your books, my world gets put back together one chapter at a time. Don't you dare let him take that from me."

Castle's jaw drops.

Oh. God.

Too much.

His eyes avoid hers, he folds his hands over the laptop. He looks strangled.

No, actually, maybe not enough.

"Castle." She drops down in her desk chair and hunches in close, makes him see her even if he won't look at her. "Art is art, no matter what genre. If it moves people, if it inspires people, if we're made better for it, made to think or feel or _move_ , then it's more than this."

His head lifts and his throat bobs, but when his mouth opens, of course he says what he says.

"Careful, Beckett." A fragile, painful grin on his face. "You'll have me thinking you want in my pants."

She stands up and leaves him at her desk once more, walking away. But she's gratified not to hear Adele as she leaves.

—–


	152. Wearing your watch

#192 (warnings)

* * *

 _Wearing your watch._

 _— AWESOMEBAZAN27_

* * *

 _What are you doing, Castle?_

When he opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is the blinding sunlight coming through the open blinds of his study. He's crusted stiff into the black leather couch and the light is aching, but suddenly she swims before his eyes, ephemeral beauty, that tongue touching the back of her teeth as she smiles down at him.

 _What are you doing, Castle?_

She speaks with the same voice that called him on the phone and asked for a date with that wine that makes her all- and it's the same voice that teased her bare knee into his view and it's the same voice that told him he was stuck with her because she had a gun. Throaty. Shiny. Beautiful. His.

She trails the ghost of her touch along his wrist and taps, tilting her head even as she spreads her lips in that Mona Lisa smile.

"I'm wearing your watch," he says finally.

His voice breaks the dizzying array of light, and she disappears back into dreams (and nightmares).

She's gone.

The watch is for the life he saved, and lost.

—–


	153. hamptons skinny dipping

**#194** (season 8)

* * *

 _Three word prompt: hamptons skinny dipping_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

It all gets to be too much and she just wants them again.

So she drives them up the coast in his car with her hand on his knee and no smile because she can't get there yet. He's not silent at first, always talking, but then he is, and it's the wind coming in through the crack in the windows and the sunlight doing the same to the clouds, coming into the early morning like something is broken.

His place in the Hamptons might be her place on paper and in their political correct phrasing but in her heart it's only his, and it represents all the ways she's stolen this life she has, cuckoo in the nest, waiting to be discovered and found out and chased off.

Only he chases after. Her, her smile, her better mood.

He drives her from the car and into the house with salacious promises and sex is always the way to find herself again, find herself in him, and he's not complaining. Except when he complains, because she puts so much on it, she gives their bodies so much weight, and even a dream betrayal prevents her from fully committing to their bodies.

But not this, not now. Now is fulfilling and right and weighty, speaking things she can't, connecting and confirming. He finds her. She comes for him.

Dazed and sun-dazzled on the bed with the windows wide open and the ocean as loud as her own heartbeat, she plays. Fingers to fingers to hips to chest, scaling his contours and teasing his valleys, pretending to be sightless just so she can see.

He growls and rolls on top of her and then away, drags her to stand with him, tugs her naked from the room. He struts, stalks, commands the whole house, and she skitters after him, breathless, clinging to the hand that leashes her, darting in at his back when he opens the sliding glass door.

All protest dies. Was it ever born? She follows him joyously down the path to the arbored pool, the white wooden trellis washed out in the sunlight, wisteria blooming overripe, roses dropping their petals into the water. He opens the gate and strides inside, but this time she sails right past him and out across the naked cement to the gorgeous light that fills and spills and moves across the face of the water.

Nude, his face reflects the glory, eyes in highlight for a change, mouth curved in want and wonder. She shivers all over for the feeling of audacity - wide open and exposed - and then she brings her arms over her head and dives cleanly into the pool.

He finds her there too, and finally she finds them, and they come together.

—–


	154. The urge returns

#195 (season 1, episode 1)

* * *

 _The urge returns_

 _— AWESOMEBAZAN27_

* * *

Rick Castle is still caught up in images of those long legs and the arch of her throat, the throaty sound of her voice in his hear, the heat of her nearness, when the urge returns.

Not that urge.

But the overriding bombardment of words.

He has to hustle down the block and pick up a taxi on the corner, and he spends the ride almost rocking back and forth in desperation. It's tightening his chest and cramping his fingers, and the words are already spilling out of the tight lockdown he has over his thinking - _don't think about her, don't think, stop thinking_.

But he's helpless to it. The woman has _inspired_ him, the whole case, the experience of the Twelfth Precinct and those detectives, but mostly her. Her. This woman, practically a girl really, who projects such steeled determination and yet whose heart bleeds quietly, unremarked, alone.

Heat.

The heat of her nearness, the heat of her lips barely almost touching his jaw - a counterpoint to the heat of her fierceness, her indomitable will, her blazing sense of right and wrong.

He'll never measure up to that.

But he might - he just might - be the only author for it.

He can't lose it, now that he's found it again. He won't.

He'll write as long as the inspiration remains, he will _write_ like he's never felt the urge before, and he will grab this opportunity with both hands.

No matter what she thinks. This isn't over.

She's his muse in corporeal form, and all the better that she's as prickly and stubborn and unamused with him as she is.

(He might be in love.)

—–


	155. Caskett Office romance

**#196** Spy Universe - about three years in the future

* * *

 _Ah sorry, typing error! 3 word prompt: Caskett Office romance_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

When the overnight shift came on, Kate realized she'd been standing in four inch heels for the better part of eight hours, and it didn't look like either of them would be going home soon.

More than that, she had been fighting off a panic attack all damn day, leftover gifts from her time at the Collective's hands. She was edgy to the point of ludicrousness. Really. The PTSD had to stop.

She tilted her head on her neck until she felt - and heard - the vertebrae pop all down her spine, and then she slid her fingers into the hip pocket on her skirt, pulled out her phone. She took the short walk out of the analysts' bullpen and stepped into Castle's empty office, closing the door behind her as she called her father.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Dad," she smiled, sinking down onto the short leather couch crammed in the corner behind Rick's desk. "How's the wolf?"

"Hey, honey. Well, we were waiting up, but he crawled onto the couch with me while I was watching SportsCenter and conked out on top of Sasha."

She hummed and closed her eyes, letting her back hit the arm of the couch and her head rest against its padded leather. Felt good, imagining her almost five year old son with his papa, taken care of while his parents worked late. Eased her off the edge a little.

"Kate?"

"Mm, I'm here," she murmured. "Sorry, took a break to call you and now I can barely keep my eyes open."

"You two need me to put him to bed at my place?"

She shifted, debating internally, pulling her feet off the floor and stretching full on the couch. "Yeah, afraid so, Dad. I'm not sure where my husband is at this moment-"

"I'm right here," came his throaty voice from the doorway. "Watching my wife pose like a lingerie model."

She chuckled and opened her eyes, found Castle watching her with more than a little heat in his eyes. Her breath caught and she touched her finger to her bottom lip to steady the phone. "Dad? Go ahead and put James to bed. We're headed that way, but it's going to take a little longer before we wrap it up here."

"Sure, Katie. I'll say good night for you."

"Thanks. Night, Dad." She let her hand drift down and ended the call, tilting her head towards Castle. "A lingerie model?" She touched her mouth, rubbed her fingertips lightly against her bottom lip. "I'm wearing a skirt and a suit jacket, sweetheart."

Castle lifted from the frame and came inside, shutting the door behind him. "And those pale pink, lace panties with the bow."

"Oh," she whispered, mesmerized by the lust in his eyes. She shifted a knee, rubbing her thighs together so that the skirt rose an inch. She was humming already, not just because of him, but also because of the low-level anxiety that had been plaguing her all day. "You've been thinking about it."

Castle stepped up to the couch, looming over her, his hands empty and loose, fingers curling as if he was imagining it - what he wanted to do to her. "And that cream push-up bra with the black lace trim. Matching bow. All tied up for me, baby, so pretty in your lace packaging."

"Guess you ought to open it," she murmured, lifting an eyebrow as he stood over her. She felt awareness rippling all over her body, on display for him. The sharp contours of her knees pointed towards the bulge in his pants. Her heart rate was elevated.

"Guess so," he rumbled.

"You lock the door, sweetheart?"

"Yes, ma'am," he breathed, coming down slowly to his knees, bracing himself with his palms on her outside thighs. "I most assuredly did. Why? You rather I didn't lock it?"

Said in complete seriousness; he knew how she reacted to a locked door these days. And the overnight shift was on. Skeleton crew. His office was sacrosanct, so it wasn't like they really needed the door to be locked.

"Maybe one day we might push those limits, Agent Castle, but right this moment, with your hands where they are, if you move, I will kill you."

His grin was wolfish when it came, and lazy, and then he dipped his head and pressed a wet kiss to the seam of her thighs just below her skirt.

—–


	156. purple silk boxers

#197 (Under the Gun, 3x03 insert)

* * *

 _How about "purple silk boxers" as a three word prompt about S3 time frame?_

 _— KIMZTYL_

* * *

She has to admit - Castle does more than his share of the heavy work.

Shoveling out what she hopes isn't an unmarked grave under a tree on the cemetery's property (with their full approval, gained quickly on a call to the mortuary's owner, whom they woke with an admittedly-fantastical sounding story about buried treasure - Beckett is nothing if not _by the book_ ), Kate stops for a moment to wipe sweat from her forehead before it can run into her eyes.

"Falling down on the job, Beckett," he calls over his shoulder. Gleefully. Entirely too excited about this.

But it's catching. Despite how this went down, and Royce's betrayal (damn, it stings), Castle is pulling her out of her dark mood.

In a cemetery, no less, standing in a two-foot-deep hole with her shirt plastered to her back with sweat.

The man has a gift. Let it not be said she went ungrateful.

He also has something of a wardrobe malfunction.

He's been hard at work, shoveling out each hopeful spot with an unflagging perseverance and a gusto that ought to feel cheesy and fake but it somehow doesn't. With every heft of the spade tonight, his shirt tails have ridden a little higher, and they're nearly untucked.

Sweat in a dark swath down his back, so broad, his shoulders are _so_ broad, his muscles working, bunching and releasing with the effort of energy. The curved line of his spine down to the waistband of his pants, his belt on the surprisingly narrow line of his hips, and then that flash of purple just above his waist where his shirt has pulled up.

She can see his boxers.

"Hey, you stopped."

"Blisters," she says, rousing, trying not to look like she's been caught looking.

"Me too." He holds up both hands, the shovel handle propped against his chest as he flashes her proof. "Come on, Beckett. Just this last one. I promise I'll stop hounding you after this."

She leans into her shovel, the dirt like clay here. "You're not hounding me," she says, eyes flicking down to his waist once more.

He's already turned back around to hack at the shallow grave they've made. Bent over as he is, she can see the minute stitching of the elastic band, and as the park lights hit him, she realizes they're not cotton.

That purple has the sheen of silk.

If she gets no shoveling done at all, it's not really her fault.

—

Stepping out of the shower, finally clean once more, Kate wraps her hair around her fist and squeezes out the excess water, bone-tired but also…

happy?

She wasn't expecting the night to end like this, but she's not surprised it's all due to Castle.

He just won't let up. He doesn't give up. He pushed and cajoled and exhorted until they finally found their buried treasure, and with that mystery solved and neatly tied up, she feels better for it. All the answers are there, neatly slotted into their places.

All but Mike Royce. Whose behavior she might never understand.

But at least she's weary enough not to lie awake thinking tonight. All due to Castle.

Her lips twitch: _he wore me out._

And as she drops the towel to head for her top dresser drawer, if her fingers unwittingly hook in a pair of silk purple panties, it's not entirely without merit.

Even if it is without sense.

—–


	157. Just watch me

**#199**

* * *

 _Just watch me_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

She wasn't sure what she'd come in on but she didn't like the looks of it. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Fixing your mistake."

Heat flared. "Oh, that's _rich_ -"

"I am, generally, thought to be-"

"Shut up, Castle," she snarled. "Why are you messing around with that thing?"

"I want Lucy back," he growled, snapping his head up and pointing a finger at her. "I don't like the way this guy sounds. All smooth and charming and flirting you up. I-"

She dropped her bag on the floor and came stalking towards him. He didn't back down, but he tugged the black pyramid of an AI box towards himself, the blue light flaring as if in response.

"Beckett," he warned, but his voice squeaked a little on the end.

She reached the kitchen counter and grabbed for the AI, the boy-toy she'd programmed into the stupid thing. "Now you know how I've felt about 'Lucy'. Don't think we're going back to that."

He eyed the black pyramid in her hands as if sizing up his next move. "Lucy never did you any harm."

"She did plenty. I'm already struggling here, trying to keep us both on an even keel after what I did, leaving you in the dark, and then the extreme measures you took to keep _me_ in the dark about Loc-"

"Hey, now. Let's not drag this all back up. What does all of that have to do with Lucy?"

"She hates me. Obviously."

He scoffed.

She hefted the pyramid and stalked towards the trash can.

"You wouldn't."

"Just watch me."

He squawked and came after her, but she slammed 'Lucy' into the metal can with a resounding, clamoring noise.

Castle stared at her.

"We are _done_ with things coming between us."

Something softened imperceptibly in his face.

No, not softened. Nothing about that look was soft. Just a lot less diamond-glittering frustration there.

"Get over here, Beckett."

She didn't.

He growled _Kate_ into the air and held out his hand for her, beckoning, and she couldn't resist the pull of her own body, immediate and urging. She moved the five feet of space between them in moments and found herself wrapped in his arms and held roughly to his chest.

His head dipped. His mouth skirted her temple and dusted along her cheek bone.

"That I can embrace," he whispered. "Or get behind. Your choice."

She sucked in a shaky breath and clutched his shirt. "Let's go with behind," she murmured, and pushed away from him. His eyes were dark with wanting. "And Castle? Use the ties this time."

—–


	158. Serena courts Castle

**#200**

* * *

 _Serena courts Castle._

 _— AWESOMEBAZAN27_

* * *

Kate Beckett sits very still at her desk. Rigid. She is holding her breath but she doesn't know she is until she has to breathe.

Castle smiles. Serena smiles like a cat.

Kate can't.

She rises violently from her desk, sweeping up a file with her as she goes, and she makes haste out of the bullpen.

Her stomach is in knots as she dumps the file back on the mail room's cart where it will find its way back down to Archives, and she hits the door to the bathroom with both hands.

She is not hiding.

—

She's better now.

She can do this.

Her smile is not brittle when Castle hands her a cup of coffee; she simply accepts with grace and leaves.

Walking away should not be this difficult. One foot in front of the other. And besides, she spent all summer walked away, figuring out how to breathe without pain. She can do it again.

For his sake this time, and not her own.

She can do this.

She wanders the bullpen for a long handful of minutes, not sure even where she thinks she's going, but in the end, she has to go back to her desk. in the end, she's back where she started, hunting for the things she left behind.

"Castle," she startles.

His eyes lift to her. His smile is warm, if slightly confused. "Beckett." Mournfully. He withdraws a letter and unfolds it, shaking his head.

Damages. He has to pay for damages.

That's all. Just a little damage, really, in the great scheme of things.

He accepts her invitation to a burger (he'll order a cheeseburger and sweet potato fries and make obscene noises over them as he eats while she steals a few of his and picks at her veggie bean burger, licking avocado from her thumb just to see if his eyes still follow her tongue).

She walks him towards the elevators, their shoulders brushing, her ribs expanding now as if the scar tissue is unknotting under the heat of his body so close to hers.

His hip bumps hers in the elevator. As if on purpose.

When she glances his way, his hand twitches at his side. If she's honest, her hand is burning for his too.

Itching.

The elevator doors close, there's a moment before the lift kicks in and begins their descent and in that very moment his knuckles graze hers and their first fingers hook and twine.

She doesn't look at him.

He jabs the button for the lobby once more to prompt the reluctant elevator.

They're jostled as it finally lurches downward, their two fingers separate, their bodies as well.

She takes the first full breath she's had in days.

—–


	159. I'm pregnant Whoops

**#202**

* * *

 _vignette 3 word prompt. "I'm pregnant. Whoops." thank you! 3 x, rachel_

 _— KATICINGS_

* * *

Wrestling Lily into a smocked dress she definitely didn't want to be wearing, Castles has a moment where he doesn't even hear his wife.

And then he does.

And his head comes up so fast he knocks into her chin and they both go stumbling back while Lily shrieks and runs off, free at last.

"What?" he gasps.

"Whoops?"

"No. Wait. Before. You said-"

"I'm pregnant." She chews on her lips and nods, nods faster, and then gives him a helpless kind of laugh. "Oh, God. We kinda-"

"There's no _kind of_ about it." His stunned disbelief gives way to broad-beamed joy and he wraps her around the waist and lifts her off her feet. She laughs again and her arms go around his head and neck and even though they've changed, been altered by the trauma that's happened, it's not tragedy.

Oh, no.

"You're pregnant," he whispers against her neck. A kiss of words. "Really? I mean, I know-"

"I know," she rushes on as well. "I know it's such bad timing-"

"So was Lily."

At that, their daughter shrieks from somewhere in the living room and something crashes.

"Still is such bad timing."

She laughs and squeezes him tight enough to make his shoulder twitch and draw inward with the residual pain. But she quickly lets go, cups his face in her hands and kisses him. "You said it first, and best, that there will _never_ be the right time. We just _live._ And hasn't life been amazing?"

"Yes," he says reverently. Adoring her. "Yes. Amazing."

"This new little one will have everything we can give it, no matter the timing."

"Of course." Another crash, pots and pans no doubt, and they both wince, separate only long enough for Kate to take his hand and drag him forward.

"Of course," she echoes, smiling at him with radiance in her eyes. "In the meantime, we're going to have to tame your willful daughter."

"Oh no, Beckett. She's all yours."

—–


	160. Kate is ovulating

**#203 (M rated - Season 8 finale mentions)**

* * *

 _Prompt... Kate is ovulating_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

"Hey, hey, hey-" She grabs him by his _crotch_ and he's croaking her name and coming up on his toes, cursing. Kate doesn't have time for gentle, for sorry, she needs him _now._ "Now, babe, right now, come on."

"Shit," he gasps, gripping her by the wrist and making her fingers release, one by one, his eyes glittering. "Beckett."

"I love it when you make me," she purrs, stepping into him but allowing the forced removal of her hands. She palms his ass and rocks herself against him, gripping him tightly, her emotions overwhelming, spiraling into lust until they're one and the same. "Make me."

"When you said," he gasps and grunts when she touches him, shakes his head like a dog. "When you said we'd have to make a damn calendar, I thought it'd take all the sexy fun right out of it."

"Did it?" she whispers.

"Oh, hell no," he growls, lifting her around the waist and driving her back to bed. He shoves and she bounces on the mattress, and he comes right down on top of her, already fumbling with his belt. "Definitely still sexy fun."

"More fun?"

"Knowing?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah," he answers and ducks his head to swallow the moan she lets loose. Her body rises up to meet him, just like the waves he can hear through the sliding glass doors of their bedroom. "It's motive."

She laughs, a rich sound that makes her eyes as dark as the night sky outside. Her hands are clever with his pants and boxers and he can't believe they made it all through dinner in the formal dining room, just the two of them, without touching each other.

He unwraps her, each thin and sheer piece of material at a time, until he finds the warm skin below. He places his mouth here and there, mapping her body, reminding himself of how they're going to change it, how it's already been changed.

Bullet scars and surgery sites, triumph and trauma. Promises in the dark of a hospital room at three in the morning when pain was a nightmare that wouldn't be shaken and all he had were words. How this would be, this moment right here, and how he would make it up to her, how she was going to make it up to him.

"I want this," she whispers now, as if he's hesitating or thinks she might be. Her legs wrap around his hips and arch into him and they're both stunned a little silly at the feeling. "Want you. Want what you want."

"Want you," he swears. "Only if you-"

"You know I do." She whines his name and reaches between them, and he has to sink his forehead into the mattress and catch his breath, but there is no catching his breath.

"Kate," he groans. "Let me in."

"You never have to ask," she whispers and opens for him and it's everything.

It's everything and hopefully, nine months from now, it's more.

Everything and more.

—–


	161. wedding anniversary 5

**#204**

* * *

 _3wp: wedding anniversary 5_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

Kate balances on her toes as she takes the cake out of the refrigerator. They've been living in her old apartment these last few years, something about the loft still doesn't sit right with either of them, and never has the space felt so cramped as it does today.

She turns and carefully placed the cake on the counter, licking her thumb free of pink frosting. She had it made at Lady M, and it's redolent with strawberry flavor, so rich it makes her tongue spark and her mouth pucker.

"Lil's gonna love it," Castle rumbles in her ear. His kiss falls wide of its mark and catches the corner of her eye, and she elbows him off. He moves around to her other side and kisses under her neck and she's pretty sure that one didn't miss.

Not at all. Oh. Very good.

"You taste like strawberry frosting," he murmurs.

"On my neck?" It takes effort to open her eyes, and even though she's so exhausted these days, she makes the effort just to see the look on his face.

"Maybe it's just the scent of that cake." They both glance down at the small square of smash cake, expensive and decadent. He chuckles. "It's filling the whole apartment."

"Lily awake?"

"And rooting," he quips.

"I just fed her," Kate mutters. "She's not getting any."

"Let her eat cake, huh?" He laughs, leaving her with one last kiss before heading back for their bedroom. Her old room, remade by both man and baby.

She never thought to have a daughter of her own in that bedroom, to have a family filling this place to the seams until it's likely to burst.

When Sophia's job took her out to LA, and the place was empty and collecting dust, and she and Castle were in separate rehab facilities, it just became de facto they'd move in.

They never talked about it. But the loft couldn't be borne.

And then Lily was born and now she doesn't know. She wanted to raise their children in the loft because it was home, because he raised his daughter there, because it has _space_ , but she doesn't know.

"Here's the birthday girl," Castle calls out, bringing Lily out into the living room.

She steps around the counter and takes the freshly-changed one year old into her arms and kissed cheeks and chin and soft baby rolls. "Hey, there, sweetheart. Are you so bewildered by the balloons? Daddy went overboard."

"Mommy bought you your very own cake," Castle baby talks, leaning close. "Who's the one who went overboard?"

She wrinkles her nose even as Lily does the same in imitation, and they both laugh, utterly delighted in that way only parents can be. Kate is fascinated by every small new thing, every day a revelation, even when it's nonstop crying and fussy nights and walking the baby in the tight circle of what used to be her office and is now the kind-of nursery.

Castle is the one to break her out of her absorption with their daughter. "Time for cake?"

"Time for cake," she agrees. She's made him hold off all morning, letting them have their time alone, the three of them. She's much more private since that night, much less willing to share him, or the baby. "Who all did you invite?"

Castle shakes his head. "No one."

"What?" she cries out, startling Lily who leans out from her arms for her father. "But they're going to hate me for monopolizing you, you both, for her first birthday. No-"

Castle takes the baby, rubbing her back with a hand, but he steps in close and winds his arm around Kate's shoulders. "It's also our five year anniversary, Kate, and that was a good excuse. We're going to do a small dinner at the loft later tonight."

She swallows hard, faintly soothed, but she's reminded again of how insular she's made them these last two years, how desperately she hangs onto them.

"No," she whispers and shakes her head. Finds the strength to put some volume in her voice. "No. Call your mother. Alexis. I'll call the Kevin and Jenny. And Esposito and Lanie and oh, you'll need to make sure Alexis is still in touch with Hayley and Rita-"

"Kate."

"No," she says again, quickly. "This is our family. They all deserve the chance to celebrate with us because they're the reason we survived to make it to this day. I'll put the cake back in the fridge. You start making phone calls."

She moves away, set on her mission, but she can't help overhearing the soft whisper Castle graces their daughter with.

"Happy birthday, Lilly," he's murmuring as Kate heads for the cake. "How lucky she's your mommy. I hope you grow up to be just like her."

They need to move back into the loft. It's time to fill it up again, time to stop being so afraid of the empty places, the shadows.

Pink frosting and strawberry in the air, a one-year-old girl whose first steps were actually full-tilt running a few weeks ago, and scars that have healed - that's what they've done in this place.

The loft awaits, and more adventures, stories yet untold.

 _Happy anniversary, Kate._

—–


	162. Taking care Mommy

**#206** (Spy Universe - Future CE + 3 years from current)  & **#209**

* * *

 _3 word prompt: Taking care Mommy_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

Castle opened the door of their hotel room, and James was standing inside the suite in his best clothes, hair combed and wet to keep it down, hands clasped in front of him like a gentleman. He exuded best behavior.

"Daddy, I just have one thing."

Castle sighed. "All right, Jay. Come on."

James grinned, ruining some of that good-boy image, but Castle couldn't fault the charm; it was his own anyway. He opened the door wider and allowed James to come inside, and the boy actually crept on tiptoes towards the bed.

"Oh," he sighed. "Mommy's asleep."

"Shh," he hushed, coming in close and laying his hand on James's head. "She needs her sleep." She was sleeping a lot, though. He thought it was self-defense, a coping skill. James had been in at lunch and Kate had been asleep then too, and it hadn't been because Castle had force-fed her a sleeping pill.

James sighed and fidgeted beside the bed. "But I did bring Mommy something."

Barely four, Castle reminded himself. Early four. Still a baby, really, and he needed to feel like he was helping his mother.

Castle leaned down and scooped James into his arms, carried him over to the armchair Castle had drawn up. Ages ago, it seemed now, when it had only been days since they'd liberated her from the Collective. The damn chair was a permanent fixture right beside her bed since getting any closer sent her into a panic attack.

Castle sat down with James and held him loosely, patting the boy's back.

"What've you got for Mom?"

James lifted his little closed fist and opened it to reveal - a feather.

A tiny puff of a grey feather. Down feather, fuzzy and stuck to James's palm by the sweat of his hand as he'd carried it. Probably from the hotel pillow.

Castle reached up and lightly touched it. "It's so soft," he whispered.

"It's for Mommy. She needs all soft things so it won't hurt."

Ah, fuck. Fuck, she did.

Castle pressed his forehead into his son's thin shoulder blades, breathing through it like King had suggested. Feeling James's strong, sturdy little body actually helped.

"You're a good kid," he said then, lifting his head and glancing to Kate, asleep on the bed. "Where should we put it so that Mommy sees it first?"

"In her hand," James answered, shrugging at him. As if to say _of course._

Castle nodded, eyeing the bandages that protected her raw fingers. "Yes. You're right. In her hand." But Kate was sleeping on her stomach and her left hand was on this side. And he-

"I can tuck it into the bandages. So it will grow like a flower."

A flower. A feather growing in her bandages like a flower. Fucking hell, his son was going to unmake him.

"And when Mommy opens her hand and her fingers spread out, there it is. Like The Little Prince."

He had no idea what the Little Prince had to do with this, but it was heartbreakingly sweet. "Yes, you're right, James. But will you let me do the tucking?"

"Hmm."

"James," he warned softly.

"But I can watch?"

"Yes, you can watch. It was your ingenious idea."

James smiled, looking pleased with himself, so Castle put the boy on his feet and leaned into the bed. "Hold your feather carefully. Let me get Mom's hand."

Kate's arm was drawn in against her chest, the bandaged hand up under her chin. Not in a fist, too painful that way, but flat against the mattress. Her fingers were capped with mesh bandages, a truly ingenious idea from Logan, and then wrapped together like mittens to keep her from trying to use it while the nailbeds were still sensitive.

Castle slowly turned her hand over, being particularly careful of the flex of her arm. If he jostled her shoulder, it might be bad.

James was patient at his side. So patient. Being such a good boy. When Kate's palm was up, Castle held out his hand to James for the feather. The boy pressed it to Castle's fingers and he took it, delicately threaded the base through the wrap on Kate's thumb. Her thumb had the least amount of damage (highest threshold for pain in the thumb, too much regular use for the thumb to feel pain like a pinky finger, so her interrogators hadn't bothered).

"Daddy," James warned.

"No, I know," he murmured. No more thinking about it. James was too sensitive to Castle's own thresholds. "How's that?"

The grey down feather puffed in the wake of Kate's breath; her eyes would open and see it perfectly.

"That's it," James said with a sigh. "That's very good. Now Mommy has something so soft. Can you fold up her fingers so it won't go anywhere?"

"Sorry, wolf. The fingers have to stay loose. So they can breathe."

"Huh."

"But Mommy doesn't move in her sleep-" She did; he was lying for the kid's sake. She thrashed in her sleep these days, but he'd save the feather. "-and she'll see it." Castle would wake her. Slowly. He would try to pull her out of it before she had a nightmare.

"Oh, good."

"Hug Mommy up, and then you need to do school work."

"Okay," James said easily. Smiling. Proud of himself and how he'd helped his mother.

Castle could tell that the boy's first instinct was to crawl on the bed, but he didn't. He stopped. He touched Kate's chin in the only kind of hug his mother could stand, even asleep.

And then he left the room.

* * *

#209 (continuation of 206)

* * *

 _omg can you pls continue #206?_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

Castle leaned over to pick the boy up, but James slid away from him, still clutching his vanilla milkshake in both hands.

"You don't want a ride?" Castle asked.

"Nope."

He chuckled at his son and straightened up, combing his fingers through the boy's hair as they stepped onto the elevator. He'd thought the two of them should spend one-on-one time together at lunch, but they'd only gone as far as the restaurant in the lobby. Fine with James. The boy had tried three different menu items, beaming around a mouthful of Apfelküchlein - deep fried apple cookie. He kept calling it an apple donut.

Their plan was in place, the two of them co-conspirators in Operation: Soft Things. Totally James's idea; he'd named the mission.

"When we get upstairs, you need to do school work," Castle reminded him.

"Logan is teaching me," James said. Partly sly, because he knew that Logan taking on school duties meant field medic, which never felt like school to the boy. It only felt like helping his mother.

"Logan is a good teacher," Castle answered. He had a moment's thought - _was this what four year olds were supposed to be learning?_ \- and then he went on. "If you have questions, come ask me."

"I just ask Logan," James said, shrugging. "He don't care about questions."

"Unlike Colin." Castle smiled - okay, yes, it was a little smug - and he guided James off the elevator on their floor, heading down the hall.

"He gets red-faced, Daddy. I save up my Uncle Colin questions for you or Papa."

"Yeah, Uncle Colin gets easily frustrated, wolf. Teaching you is good practice for him."

"I don't wanna be good practice. Besides, all Uncle Colin wants to talk about is the queen. That's stupid."

Castle laughed outright; he could imagine Colin getting stuck on British royalty, thinking history was a safe subject for a four year old. It wasn't like Castle cared if his son learned anything from Colin, it was more about keeping the boy busy and not thinking about his mom. Not _sensing_ his mom. Just in case. Fill his head with knowledge.

It wasn't exactly preschool, but it was something at least.

"Daddy, after Logan teached me, can I-"

"Teaches me."

"Teaches you?"

"No, I was - never mind. After Logan teaches you, can you what?"

"Can I visit the zoo?"

Castle came to a halt before the door of their suite, glanced down to James. "What makes you think there's a zoo?"

James sucked on his milkshake, pursed lips, eyes wide as he looked back up at his father.

"James." Had somebody thoughtlessly said, _hey, there's a zoo here_? That seemed grossly negligent - of any of them, all of them who were in on this mission to heal Kate, save Kate.

"I don't know. I saw a zoo."

"Where."

"Just - thinking about it. I don't know, Daddy. Sometimes there's things."

Sometimes there were things.

"James," he sighed, kneeling on the muted carpet of the hotel's interior hall. He got eye to eye with his son because he had to be honest, fair about this, about the boy's expectations for this excursion. This mission for his mother. "Okay, wolf, you know we gotta think about Mom first."

"Yup."

"So the zoo isn't really high up on the list."

"But if Mommy wants to go to the zoo?" A kind of childish, innocent hope trembled in James's face, and Castle couldn't quite bring himself to crush it.

"If Mommy - okay. If Mommy brings it up. On her own. With no help from the little wolf. Then yes."

James beamed at him, hugging his milkshake to his skinny chest. "Thank you so much, Daddy."

"James. Mommy can't be asked for things."

"I won't ask. I won't say a whole _word_."

"Good boy. Now, come on. Stop mangling your straw and let's find Logan. Time for school."

He'd been too long away from Kate.

—–


	163. intimate and intense

**#207** (season 8)

* * *

 _Three word prompt: "intimate and intense"_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

He couldn't let go.

She was a harsh, strong line against his body, unyielding, but he bent his knees into the backs of her thighs and she folded.

He couldn't let go.

It was too much, everything, and there was no thunderstorm outside the windows but he felt the thunder inside him, the potential for devastation, for something cataclysmic, and he didn't know how to hold it back except by holding onto her.

She would have to leave; she would have to sneak out.

But he couldn't let go.

She shifted in his embrace, and he tried to tell himself, warn himself of what came next, but instead of sliding out of his bed - their bed - she turned in his arms and pressed her body to his, flesh to flesh.

He buried his face in her shoulder and gripped her tighter, unwilling to breathe and so somehow dislodge her.

She clung equally, svelte power leashing him, heat still fierce under their skins. Her cheekbone ground into the top of his head, he lifted his chin to look at her.

Her forehead crashed to his.

"I don't want to go," she mewled.

"Don't," he gruffed. His whole body rebelled her leaving. "Don't go if you don't want to go. I don't want you gone."

"I'm going to get you killed, or shot, or-"

"Don't."

She shook her head against his, but still she didn't move.

"I want to wake up to my wife," he whispered. "Give me that. One morning. For Valentine's Day?" He heard how pathetic it sounded; he could do nothing about it.

But her arm snaked around his neck, somehow bringing them impossibly closer. With her body against his, he felt the sweat beginning to dry, the sensation of the messy afterward of love, sticky logistics.

It was all messy, and less romantic than it appeared. Reality never measured up to fantasy.

And things like Valentine's Day often fell by the wayside.

"Okay," she whispered, her mouth open against his jaw. "Okay, Rick. I'm staying. I shouldn't but I-" She shook her head, and he felt the wet place against his neck where her tears suddenly streaked down.

He cupped the back of her head and breathed softly, kissing the crooked corner of her mouth. "I owe you breakfast, remember? You walked out on what was going to be an amazing smorlette."

"Yes," she choked out, nodding. "That. I want that."

—–


	164. Kate, Jake, Reece

**#208**

* * *

Three word prompt: Kate, Jake, Reece

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

"No, guys, we do not _need_ Daddy. Mommy is perfectly capable."

Twin looks of disbelief tilt up to her, paused in the middle of stripping off their play clothes. Kate puts her hands on her hips and narrows her eyes.

"Hey. I can totally make bathtime fun. Daddy and Lily won't know what they're missing."

Jake, as always, is the first to speak up. "Mommy?"

"Yes, Jakey, shoot."

He grins (but it's Daddy's joke, darn it). "Pew, pew," he says, shooting off his fingers and giggling. Even if it is Daddy's joke, it worked. "Can we have the bath crayons?"

Oh, God. "Uh." Shit. "Yes. Of course. Bath crayons are the best. Reece, honey, you're pokey tonight. Hurry up. Jake's already streaking naked down the hall."

Reece's serious little mouth gives a twitch, but he suppresses it quickly, eyeing Kate as if he still doesn't trust this change in plans. Castle gives _fun_ baths, and Kate tends towards efficiency, but she knows they're so disappointed that their father took Lily out for a special treat and not them.

She's going to have to make it up to them. Especially since it's her fault. Lily's heart is broken, and Kate knows her daughter's Beckett-heart needs Castle to silly and sweet her out of it.

So it falls on Kate to make bathtime memorable. "And not only the crayons, but you guys can take a bath in Daddy's big tub and turn on the jets. _With_ Mr Bubbles too. What do you say, Pokey?"

Reece's lips finally break, unable to hold back his amusement with her. "Jets and bubbles too?" So hopeful, so incredulous.

"Yup. Tell your crazy brother."

"Ja-ake!" Reece calls down the hall, already darting off even though he's still in his Batman underwear. "Mommy's says _jets and bubbles too."_

 _"Mommy!"_ Jake gasps, poking his head out from his bedroom doorway. "Are you so serious?!"

She laughs. "I'm so serious."

—–

When the bathtub almost literally blows up - some kind of chemical reaction between the bubbles, the bath crayons, and the jets in the jacuzzi - Kate is no longer laughing.

Oh, but Jake and Reece sure are.

They're laughing so hard they're choking.

And that's how Castle and Lily find them.

Soaked to the bone and also somehow dotted with bright crayony color, Kate holds up both hands to stop him before he can start. "Don't even. No. Just - help me."

"Of course," he says smoothly, lips twitching with mischief in the exact same way Reece's always do. "How can I help?"

"Me too, Mommy," Lily says solemnly, still nursing a milkshake but with so much more happiness in her eyes.

Meanwhile, Jake and Reece are still cackling. "Best _ever_ , Mommy! You do _all the baths."_

Okay, then. Totally worth it.

And if she's clever and a little naughty, she can convince Castle to clean up the mess.

—–


	165. crying at work

#210 (set in the 'Time of Our Lives' AU where Beckett is Captain and after Castle is shot)

* * *

 _crying at work_

 _— OHSWEETDARLING_

* * *

She placed her hands over the book and took a deep breath, tried to relax her shoulders. Her office chair was contoured, usually comfortable, and her desk was the same one Captain Montgomery had used.

But she couldn't strangle the emotion that kept rising in her throat, pricking the backs of her eyes. The usual routines, the sameness of her office - at one time, those things never failed to center her, remind her of the good she could do, if not for her mother, then for other people's mothers, others' tragedies.

Rick Castle had been shot.

And then he had died.

Beckett swallowed and pressed her hands into the hardback book, one of her old favorites, one she'd taken up again when he'd shown at her precinct. The sharp edges cut into the flesh of the palms, pushing back.

"Captain?"

She sucked in a breath and lifted her head.

Esposito narrowed his eyes. "Did - are you-" He shook his head, and she struggled mightily to keep it back. They were both going to pretend she hadn't been crying at work. Espo rubbed the back of his neck. "Uh, the daughter is here."

Beckett let out her breath (had she been holding it?) and nodded briskly. "Send her in." But she stood from her desk, leaving the book where it was on the blotter as if for courage, and she strode forward to meet the young woman.

Alexis Castle already looked haunted. About as much as Kate Beckett herself.

Kate steeled herself, reached out to shake Alex's hand. "Miss Castle? Thank you for coming to the station. I… wanted to ask you about doing something, some kind of event, in your father's name."

"Alexis," the girl replied quietly. Her chin lifted. "Please call me Alexis. And - I think that's - a really great idea." That chin she'd lifted began to quiver, though she struggled with it. "I wish I - hadn't been such a bitch to him. We had just really started talking again, and I-"

Beckett's chest squeezed. All of this, taken away. All the _potential_ , gone just like that.

Because he had put himself in front of a bullet for her. Insufferable, over-eager, _crazy_ man - he had jumped into death with wide open eyes.

Alexis turned soul-stealing eyes on her. "Can we get out of here? Go somewhere and talk. Because he - I don't even think I really _knew_ him. What did I know? I don't even live here any longer. I just - I need to - and maybe if we talked - it just seemed like you knew him. Or he knew you. And that's good enough for me."

Kate glanced out of the windows to the rest of the bullpen, made her decision.

"Yes, let's get coffee. I know a place down the street. It's the best. We'll talk."

She didn't know how well she had really known Richard Castle, but he had seemed to think he knew her. Had her pegged the moment she walked into the interrogation room. She had thought she had him pegged in return.

But she really hadn't had any idea.

—–


	166. Post-unvanquished Kate's recovery

#211 (Post Unvanquished Chapter 8 before the Epilogue of Chapter 9)

* * *

 _Post-unvanquished Kate's recovery_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

From the front porch, she could see everything. The trees that bordered their property came in so close that a limb branched in under the porch and its leaves turned and turned in the sunlight and the breeze. She could count the leaves, and see their individual green veins, and she could watch the inch worm as it fattened up for a long hibernation.

Kate had been the same. For four hours, she had been dead. And now, she was not dead.

She was not sure she was, exactly, alive.

Castle had rolled out the monitors and set everything up so that she could rest on the swing. He had wanted to carry her, but she had drawn the line there. Still, the journey of a few steps had taken her ages, leaning against him so hard she had thought her whole body was going to shut down.

But she made the trek every morning and then back every late afternoon when the sun began to sink and the air chilled.

She could not feel her toes this morning. She didn't tell him that. The feeling would return tomorrow, and if it didn't, then she would tell him. It had happened before, as her lungs struggled to expand, as her blood ran sluggish in her body. It would come back. She refused to think otherwise.

"Hey."

She turned her head, sunlight splashing against her lashes, and saw him standing in the doorway. He lifted a glass already dripping with condensation. "Lemonade. And I've got the game streaming on my phone."

"Use up all your data," she got out, voice rough over vocal cords that still hadn't come back.

"Just the radio." He glanced to the outside world, and then his eyes came back to her. "Mets are doing good this season."

Mets. Baseball. Him. "Come 'ere."

He grinned and lifted from the doorway, pushed open the screen door and came out to her. She gave a helpless gesture towards the swing, but he settled his phone and the glass on the porch railing, and he came back to move her.

She caught a breath when it pinched, but he kept on with it, didn't slow down. He shifted her in the deep swing, got his body behind hers, and then a leg up, and then pulled her back to settle into him.

Sunlight sparkled and striped across them where the morning reached under the porch roof. She let out a fast breath, shallow, light-headed after all that exertion.

He kissed her temple, her cheek, smoothed down her hair. "You ready?"

"Yeah," she croaked.

He reached for the glass, his phone, and though his reach made her tense, it wasn't as bad this time. He settled again, brought the glass into the crook of her arm so that she had to take it.

"Don't get dehydrated," he murmured.

She obediently lifted the glass, and she knew he could see how much her arm shook, but he didn't mention it.

He propped in her lap and turned up the volume, and she swallowed a mouthful of cool water as the announcer's voice came through the speaker.

Something so normal she could pretend this _was_ living, and she was, actually, alive.

Rather than simply not dead.

She handed him the water glass and he put it on the porch, settled back with her. His arm around her was hesitant, looser than she liked. Castle was trying not to hurt her. Or constrict her lungs.

"Come on, Romeo," she murmured, turning her head away from the sunlight to brush her lips against his jaw. "Turn it up a little. It's a good year for the Mets."

His smile was wide against her lips. "Good year for us too, Kate. Promise. I'm going to make it up to you. I-"

"Hush," she murmured, shaking her head against his neck. "I'm alive. We're together. It's already good."

—–


	167. post birth twins

**#212**

* * *

 _3wp: post birth twins_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

"You get away from me," she rasped, eyelids fluttering open.

Castle laughed, caught her hand in his, kissed her knuckles. "Didn't realize you were awake," he whispered.

"Feel like I've been hit by a truck," she grunted. One eye squinted at him. "Your kids have big heads, Rick Castle."

He really tried _not_ to laugh at that one, because she wasn't kidding, but it kinda snorted out. She knocked their joined hands into his chin and opened her other eye, winced.

"Help me sit up," she said, gesturing at him in what he assumed was the direction she wanted to go.

Castle slid his arm under her neck and shoulders, mostly tilted her until she wasn't resting on her side any longer. He kissed her forehead as she caught her breath, adjusting on the raised head of the bed, but he touched a mild brush of his lips against her mouth when she was steady.

She caught him by the ear, held him there. "Where are my boys," she murmured, nothing less than a threat in the steel of her voice.

"Boys? Did you - I mean, Espo and Ryan both left for-"

"Not those punks," she growled at him. Twisting his ear a little. " _My_ boys. Our boys. I want to count their toes and kiss their faces."

He grinned and caught her bottom lip in a kiss even as he rose from her bed. "We can go right down to see them, since you're clearly up for it."

She gave him a flashing look - she'd caught the undercurrent in his tone - and she braced her fists at either side of her hips, lifted slightly. "I am. I swear. You got a wheelchair?"

"I brought one with me. And - well, Liliane is out there with your dad, peeking in on them."

She swallowed and licked her dry lips, nodded even as her eyes slid shut.

"Kate?"

"No, I'm good. Just really damn tired," she said, giving him a look through her lashes that made his chest tight. "Bring the wheelchair close. I'll-"

"No, you won't. I will." He leaned in over her once more, arms scooping her up. He had set his legs wide so that he was using his thighs instead of his back, but he still felt the twinge.

Not smart, Castle. Two newborn babies in the NICU and a wife who'd given birth naturally, babies in distress for the last few hours, and he needed to be in peak condition.

"Put me down, you idiot," she whispered. "Gonna throw your back out and then we'll be fucked."

"What a nasty mouth you have when you're exhausted," he said back, kissing her again as he settled her gently in the wheelchair. "Used my legs, swear."

"Don't let Lily hear me," she chuckled. "I'm so tired. I couldn't really sleep; I was just lying there, but moving at all is like-" She stopped abruptly shot him a look. "Well, hmm. Not as bad as double GSWs. I'll shut up now."

"You can complain," he promised, moving around to the handles to push her out of the room and into the hall. He leaned in, bracing himself on his elbows, kissed her neck. He couldn't stop touching her. "Complain all you like. You're the warrior woman."

"Warrior woman who bitched about being too old for this," she muttered. "Still too old for this." But as they approached the long NICU, she turned in the wheelchair and gripped his hand. "Have you seen them? Are they okay? They told me they were just monitoring-"

"They're just fine; doing good. Breathing well, little lungs seem to be formed, body temp has been stable. They said the true test is feeding, so we'll take it as it comes. Lily already claimed one of them."

"One?" she laughed, the anxiety melting from her face. "Both hers."

"She thought she could only have one," he chuckled. "I tried to explain, but she's your girl. She won't believe it until she sees it - both coming home with us."

But Kate had already stopped listening to him, her body riddled with tension as the doors to the NICU whooshed open for them. He pushed her inside and through to the anteroom where a nurse welcomed them with special booties, caps, and hospital gowns.

Castle pulled his on at the front, arms through the sleeves like a snuggie, and then he pushed Kate, similarly clad despite already being in a hospital gown, through to the NICU basinets.

"Oh, God," she whispered, reaching back to clutch his hand.

There were their babies, side by side in those curved isolettes, soft knitted caps on their little heads, monitor each around one tiny foot. He pushed her all the way up, so that they could reach in and touch their soft, so-thin skins. A fist was moving, a face twisting up in a yawn (Castle had been told that was common as they learned to breathe in rhythm), and the other was curled in tight, tucked up.

"I know which is which," she said into their stunned silence. "Jacob, he's the one-"

"-moving," Castle finished.

She glanced up at him with a beaming face. "Yes."

 _Supplanter._ The Hebrew form for James - her father's name. "He was first," Castle told her, nodding towards the squirming thing. "Ugly little face, isn't it?"

She laughed. "Yeah. He worked for it, we both did. And that's Reece. Slid right on out, smaller by-"

"Only a few ounces," he promised, putting a hand into the isolette to touch the smooth, unlined skin of the littler one. "Came out on his brother's coattails."

"Like someone I know," she murmured, knocking her head into his shoulder.

"Hey, now," he answered, but his voice was so low, so soft, that it meant nothing at all. None of it did. Only these two tiny things learning to breathe and keep warm and-

"Oh, look, they know your voice," she whispered.

"Our voices," he corrected, as both boys turned their heads and opened their mouths at Kate's hushed words. "Hey, guys. Mommy's here."

She laughed again and he heard the tears in it, but she was leaning in hard against his shoulder and he couldn't see her. She reached in under his arm so that she had a finger around each boy's fist, touching.

"Welcome to the world, Jake and Reece. We're so happy you're here."

—–


	168. 2x01, Castle, I'm

**#213**

* * *

 _Wait, you've already done a season two pregnancy thing. So I'm doing to revise my prior question to, "2x01, Castle, I'm..."_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

When Beckett calls him back from the elevator, her voice tight and contained, he doesn't hesitate. Her terse, _see you tomorrow_ is like a gift, lifting his heavy heart. His smile might be too wide for the way she won't look at him, the way she stares down at her desk, but he's overjoyed.

"Castle," she says suddenly, halting his movement away. "I'm…"

He waits for it, breathless, anticipating _anything_. She could give him the boot from her precinct, she could tear him a new one; she could be his friend again.

(It's disconcerting just how much this moment feels like a revelation, a confession, a intimacy they don't yet have.)

"…only going to say this once," she finally says. Her eyes are serious on his, sober, and he feels it sinking into him, the sense that this is for keeps. "I'm not a fan of stunts. The kind you pull routinely. Like that photo shoot that 'Cosmo' _had_ to do in the bullpen-"

The blood drains out of his face, and he opens his mouth to give an excuse, charm his way back into her good graces, but she raises a hand and he says nothing.

"-I'm not a fan," she restates clearly. Her eyes are intent on his, and he's never been under the full power of her interrogation prowess (at least not when he believes it). "But I will say… you bring a lighter side to this job. Something I can see on the faces of my detectives when it's time to knock off. And while it's good to be able to crack a joke, be goofy, I know that's not all that's going on with you. I can see that much - and it's why I expected more from you."

He's speechless.

"So for that - and that alone, Castle - you are coming back. But don't mistake an accepted apology for permission to be callous about what we do here."

—–


	169. Kate morning sickness

**#214**

* * *

 _Here you go! Three words: Kate morning sickness_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

It's like an alarm clock.

A sadistic, miserable alarm clock that intones a warning inside her which propels her out of bed before she's even awake and into the bathroom to crack her knees on the tile and bend over the toilet.

She throws up four times, exactly four, and sinks back on her haunches, sleep-stunned, washed out, hands shaking. But despite the nausea, four times is all she'll get.

She opens her mouth and runs her tongue wincingly around her teeth, but she can't brush her teeth yet. Sometimes another bout comes an hour later, and she's right back here, dragged out of bed at four in the morning to throw up four times, like the anal retentive she is.

Like mother, like…

Hmm, she still doesn't have a sense of it.

Castle keeps calling her stomach _grizzly_ for the voracious appetite she's had this first trimester. Or well, that's the line he gives her. She thinks it's more for the way she growls at him to keep his damn hands off.

All of it. _Off._

Kate licks her lips, takes a shallow breath.

She can do this. This was her bright idea. He said they didn't need anything else; that life itself was so great a gift. He said _you don't have to prove anything._

She's proving something. It might not be the healthiest way to go into parenthood, but it's where she is at this moment.

She doesn't have a feeling for it, this thing that grows inside her. She takes vitamins, does the check-up dutifully, withstands Castle talking to her stomach, throws up every morning, but she has no real connection to this yet.

She really - she's desperate to _know_. To feel it flood over her. Motherhood. That glow. She doesn't glow; she vomits. And gets clammy. And crawls into the jacuzzi tub to sleep for another hour before throwing up again.

It'll be worth it. She knows that. He keeps reminding her. But she believes.

Maybe that's as good as it gets right now. She believes, and the only thing she's ever believed in her life this easily, this readily, is _them_.

—–


	170. you were sleeping

**#215**

* * *

 _3words... you were sleeping _ Arraydesign㈵6_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

"Shh, no, _hush,_ I said. Jake. Down."

Kate cracks en eye, the rise of her arm, the pillow, the navy sheet, the boys. And-

"What," she garbles, trying to lift herself, trying to wake. "What's-"

"No, no, go back to sleep, Mommy," Castle stage whispers, too loud in the room, echoing in her head. "Long night at work, right guys?"

"Sleep, Mama! Slee-"

"Okay, hush, enough. Hang on, wait. Don't do-" A sigh. "That."

Kate shakes her head, her mouth like a sock, struggles to push upright, dragging herself to the headboard at least. She shoves her hair out of her eyes, gives the bed a once-over, trying to wake. "What's going on? I…" She's at a loss.

The whole room is… decorated? She wouldn't call it that, but her two year old twins just might. Lily must be at school, and Rick has kept the boys out of preschool for some reason. So they can… decorated the bedroom.

"Happy verses, Mama!" A hard jar of the bed and Kate oofs, grabbing for the incoming little body, the collide of his excitement.

"Jake. What…"

" _Annie_ -verses," Reece corrects, scowling from the side of the bed, his eyes barely peeking over. The good boy, doing just what Daddy asked.

"Come on in," she sighs, holding an arm out to Reece as Jake squirms down against her.

Castle lifts Reece onto the bed, gives her a wincing and apologetic look. "Happy anniversary?"

She stares at him, still half-dead with sleep, but she has no idea. "It's not."

He laughs, gestures to the streamers hanging down (toilet paper?) decorated with markers and glitter.

Great. Glitter. That's going to be _everywhere_. In the rug, the carpet, the-

"Anniversary of moving back into the loft," Castle says, shrugging. "Anniversary of your new job. Something to celebrate, don't you think?"

She stares at him, shakes her head. "Those aren't even the same day. And it's not - Castle. I can't believe - you decorated the whole room in _toilet paper._ "

"And we made a poster, see?"

She jerks her head to the chair where the white poster board is mostly black scribbles - Jake's favorite color.

"Castle."

"What?" he says defensively, corralling a boy before he can fall off the edge. Jake, of course. "You were sleeping. We were all bored waiting for you to wake up."

"Bored!" Jake cries out, throwing up his hands and giving her a big grin.

Reece slides little chubby arms around her neck, presses close to her cheek. "You not like it, Mommy?"

Oh, God.

She sighs into his neck until he squirms, finally giggles. "I love all your hard work and excitement, baby. Thank you so much."

But she lifts her head and shoots Castle a glare.

"Just wait until _Daddy_ is sleeping," she hums to Reece, smiling nastily at her husband. "Aren't we gonna have fun."

—–


	171. Rick, Alexis, Lily

**#217**

* * *

 _Three words prompt: Rick, Alexis, Lily_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

"Here she is," he whispers down, beaming as his daughter tiptoes inside the nursery.

To greet his daughter. Her baby sister.

"Big sis finally made it."

"Hey, Lily. I did make it," Alexis whispers back, leaning in so close that it's her flaming head bowing over Lily's dark one and eclipsing the sight. "How tiny you are." Her chin lifts and her eyes meet his. "Dad, can I hold her?"

"Of course," he answers, offering the baby with a shift of his arms. Alexis reaches in and there's that awkward transition of taking one from the other, the same dance he and Kate have perfected over the long nights, but which Alexis is still so new to.

"Oh, wow," Alexis breathes, settling Lily close to her. Blue eyes locked onto the baby, scouring every inch of her visible to sight. "She looks like Kate."

"Yeah, she does," Castle grins. "Here, come over here, sit down with her. She'll stay asleep if you rock her."

Alexis settles into the gliding chair and sinks back, bringing the baby in against her chest, as if in protection. She lifts a hand and tucks the scrap of blanket into Lily's arm, resting there on the baby's belly.

Rick leans a hip against the side of the crib, watching, and then he has to force himself to stop staring, stop cataloging every moment, stop being so surprised and awed and dumbstruck.

"I'll be downstairs," he says softly into the room. "Kate's asleep too."

"You writing?" his oldest (his _oldest!_ ) murmurs, finally lifting her eyes to his. "Kate said yesterday you were behind-"

"Only a little behind. You know Gina," he answers, rolling his eyes. "But yes, nosy. I'm writing."

Alexis smiles as if she's proud of him, but her eyes fall back to the baby. No one can look away from Lily for long. He totally gets it. Alexis sighs. "I can hold her all through her nap?"

"Don't tell Kate," he chuckles. "She says we're spoiling her."

"I won't tell," Alexis coos, still looking down at the baby. "If you won't tell, Lily. Sisters, right? It'll stay just between us."

—–


	172. Beckett pregnant PTSD

**#218**

* * *

 _Would love to see your take on this 3-word prompt: Beckett pregnant PTSD. Please and thank you!_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

He finds her with all the lights blazing in the loft, her back wedged between the slope of the floating staircase and the credenza against the wall. Her arms are up, knees pulled into her chest, and she's breathing so fast that he doesn't try to touch her.

"Kate." He crouches down on her level. "Kate, it's me."

One arm drops, the other fist against her temple, her eyes wild.

"Kate, honey-"

"Castle," she rasps, and throws herself at him.

He catches her, hears whatever she had in her fist clatter to the wood floor even as he rocks to keep their balance. She practically climbing him, and he does what he can to soothe, a hand to the back of her head to cradle her close to him - but not too close, not too restrictive.

"It's okay, you're okay. You're here with me. It's just me."

She keens and the noise breaks him, her panic attack finally loosening its hold and letting her go. She starts shaking, full-body tremors so that it's hard to hold onto her, and he gathers all of her limbs into him, every part of her, trying to keep her close to his heart.

"We're alive," he reminds her. "You're alive, I'm alive. We survived, Kate."

She nods against him, desperation in the force of it, and he finds her white-knuckled grip in his shirt and he releases her fingers. Draws their hands betwen them, brushing against her shirt.

"More than survive, right Kate? This little miracle. The size of a lemon."

She chokes on a cry and tightens her arm around him, but he hears her catch a breath now, and then another. He leans back against the pillar and flutters his fingers at her stomach.

She slowly deflates, all of her energy draining out of her. Her own fingers tighten in his, rub thumb to thumb, purpose and awareness in her now.

"What set you off?" he whispered.

"Lights flickered," she says shortly. A snort of derision.

"I get it," he answers, and she lifts her head finally. Their eyes meet.

He _does_ get it. But his are nightmares that wake them both. Hers are in the daylight, sending her spiraling at the least thing.

"I'd pick you up but I'm afraid I'd drop you. Can you stand? I'll take you to the couch."

"I can stand. I'm fine," she gets out, chin up. And it's true; she _is_ fine. She's just all sharp edges these days, jagged trauma and gritting her teeth and fighting it off.

She has to be tired.

He stands and helps her up, and she comes without any of her usual grace, still trembling from the letdown of adrenaline, the sweat at the back of her neck that reeks of fear.

He glances towards the couch but they have to work their way around the pillar and move just shy of the kitchen and the copper pans glint in the light, the floor with its stain that they can't get clean-

"We have to get out of here," he says suddenly, the truth of it striking him like a shot. "We can't - we can't live here." Kate jerks to a stop beside him, knocking into his shoulder, but he turns and surveys the loft in despair. "We have - we have a baby coming and we're - barely making it. _Why_ are we doing this to ourselves?"

Kate's mouth drops open. But nothing comes out. Her face is white as a sheet, her eyes still the withdrawn darkness of battling her demons, and she clutches his hand like a lifeline. Like she's drowning.

But they're going to have a baby. They should be-

Not this.

"Pack," he says gruffly, swallowing the urge to cry. "We're getting out of here."

"Castle," she breathes, staring at him. "Where are we supposed to go?"

"Anywhere but here."

—–


	173. Kate and James

#219 (Spy Castle)

* * *

 _Three words prompt: Kate and James_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

When they reached the cabin, her father stepped out onto the porch to meet them, his eyes in the moonlight somehow a warning.

"What's wrong?" she said, taking the steps in one. "What's-"

"He tried to stay up, wait for you," her father answered, shaking his head. "But he just fell asleep. That's all."

She winced, the bag slung over her shoulder. She glanced to her husband and he opened the screen door for her. Her father ushered her inside with a hand. "There's stew in the fridge, venison. James wanted to make it."

"Damn," she sighed, rubbing her forehead as the screen door closed gently under her husband's touch.

Her father kissed her forehead, squeezed her shoulders. "I'm headed to bed. You guys make yourselves at home."

She watched him head down the hall and then she turned to Castle. He took the bag from her shoulder and his own, lowered them to the floor just inside the kitchen. He seemed to be waiting on her, but she didn't know.

"I can go wake him," Castle said quietly. "Tell him we're home. Talk to him a little. Explain the flight was delayed."

Castle was always the one doing that. It was never her; she wasn't the one he wanted these days. Maybe that was part of why.

"No," she said finally. "I'll do it. I should - I'll just check on him. I won't wake him if he's truly asleep."

Castle lifted an eyebrow, but he didn't make a comment on her sudden vulnerability. He only nodded and turned to the kitchen. "All right, but hurry, Beckett. There's stew. Venison stew. And if I eat it all before you get back - tough."

Kate gave him a smile; he was trying to make her laugh, to ease her a little, but she headed down the dark hallway still knotted up inside. James's door was straight ahead, at the end of the hall, a room her father had added on to the cabin just for his grandson.

Jim had been emotional when James was born, and Kate knew he'd received the boy like a balm, as if James's life was a repayment for the life taken from them when her mother had been murdered. It didn't eclipse her mother's absence. But having James had completed a once broken circle.

And James followed his grandfather around like the man could do no wrong. He followed Castle around like that too, hanging on his every word. He wasn't a momma's boy at all, for which she was profoundly grateful.

Still she couldn't shake that feeling of his small fingers around her thumb, the way he'd looked to her and needed her when he was a newborn, how it had seemed impossible that she could be enough and yet somehow she had been.

For a while, she had been his world.

Kate opened his door quietly, using all of her skills as a spy to make a noiseless entrance. The moon painted the sheets and striped across Sasha's back as she slept at the foot of James's bed. The dog's head lifted as Kate entered but Sasha made no sound; a small swish of her tail was her only greeting.

Kate cupped Sasha's head behind her ears and kissed the dog's soft muzzle, murmured hello in an undertone, petting down her ruff. Sasha laid her head back down and blinked at Kate in the darkness while Kate turned to her son.

At almost four years old, he had the skinny limbs of a child growing out of babyhood too fast for his body to catch up. He looked older even than the last time she'd seen him–which had only been three days ago. His jaw held the lines of his father, though his lashes were hers, long and shadowing his cheeks.

Kate leaned over him and softly kissed the pale forehead, had to brush back the too-long hair so she could kiss a clear stretch of skin. James stirred and opened his eyes, and for a moment, she didn't think he saw her.

And then his smile in the darkness stretched his lips so that the moon caught the corner.

"Mommy."

"Hey there, James. Daddy and I are home."

His lashes brushed his cheeks and flared open again, and Kate slowly crawled into bed, eased down under the sheets with him. He smiled at her like he was shy and wriggled over into her. She wrapped an arm around him and kissed his cheeks.

"Did you try to stay awake?" she whispered, rubbing her thumb under his eye.

He nodded and wound an arm around her neck. His mouth came to her ear. "I'm happy."

"Oh," she murmured, heart twisting. "Did you not feel happy tonight?"

He hummed. "What, mommy?"

"You didn't feel happy?"

He didn't answer her and she could feel his sleep-slow heart beating calmly against her chest, feel his lashes as his eyes closed. His arm didn't loosen from around her neck though.

Okay. Not quite four year old feelings were difficult to unwind. The threads usually led nowhere. "But you're happy," she echoed. "I'm happy too. Happy to see you."

"Did Daddy kiss you home?"

She gave a little sigh in the darkness, trying not to be amused. She wasn't sure what that meant. "Daddy kiss me home?"

"He always kisses you when you come home."

"Oh," she chuckled. "He does. It's a welcome home tradition; you're right. You know when he started that? When I found out I was pregnant with you. I told him about you at the hospital," she smoothed over, "and when we got home, he said all he wanted to do was kiss me."

James wriggled a little closer to her body, one of his knobby knees kicking her in the ribs. She didn't care at all; she curled him closer and palmed the back of his head, his warm small body sinking into hers.

James let out a sleepy sigh. "I like that Daddy kisses you home."

She hid her smile in the top of his head, tried not to laugh. "Oh, yeah? You do."

"You love him and he loves you."

"Yes. We love each other a lot."

"That's good. That means everything is right."

She tilted her forehead down to his, watched his eyes slowly open. "Yeah?"

"You always kiss each other."

She smiled then, couldn't help it. "Yes, we do kiss each other a lot."

"And you kiss me too."

"Oh, yes. Because I love you too. A lot."

He hummed and wriggled against her, so pleased. Wriggling like a puppy. She kissed him then because he hadn't felt abandoned at their lateness at all, he had just wanted to see their kiss. A kiss that meant everything was fine and they were happy.

James shifted and gave her a pursed lips kiss on the mouth. "I love you back, Mommy," he whispered.

"Oh, my little wolf, that makes me so happy too." She grinned at him and hugged him tight, and then she slid out of his bed, pulled the covers up. "Bedtime now."

James rolled over away from her, his face towards the moon coming in the window, and Kate reached out a hand to comb through his hair.

When she left, Sasha was guarding his sleep.

—-

Back in the kitchen, Kate leaned against the door frame and watched Castle as he mixed the pot of stew on the stove. He'd become quite the snob with his food these last few years, so of course venison was too good for the microwave.

He turned and caught her staring, winked at her. "Sit, love. Almost done."

He nodded towards the kitchen table and she sank down in the chair, eased back to watch him. He moved around the kitchen with the same assuredness and ease he'd had when they had met. His body was so male - powerful thighs and hard biceps, hands that spread wide and dominated everything he touched. He was like a lion, big and predatory, but lazy with his strength, cunning in it, knowing his own charm could get him what he wanted rather than go out and get it himself.

She was what? His lioness out hunting and carrying his cub in her mouth and making his kills for him, for his pride?

Ha, no.

"What are you thinking over there? You look amused."

She grinned and shook her head. "Mm, just undressing you with my eyes."

Castle was ladling stew into bowls when she spoke and he chuckled, turning around and assessing her with a leer that was definitely undressing. Most assuredly taking it off, piece by piece.

But only he smirked and asked, "How was he?"

"Fine," she said easily. "Just fine. He wasn't lonely or sad. He just wanted to see you kiss me home."

"Kiss you what?" Castle laughed, cocking an eyebrow.

"His words. Welcome home kiss, to kiss me home."

Castle's grin spread and she saw him glance towards the direction of James's room, taking pride in his son. "Smart kid. And stupid me. I haven't kissed you home yet."

She crooked a finger at him. "Come here then."

Abandoning the bowls of stew, he pushed off the counter and came for her, gripping the back of her neck and angling her mouth to his. She arched up into him, gripping his bicep just to feel the taut and leashed strength. He pulled her right up off the chair and into his body and she let out a moan into his mouth that she couldn't contain.

Kate slid her arms into the open sides of his plaid shirt, got her fingers in under the black t-shirt to skim bare skin. He growled something dirty at her jaw and sank his teeth into her neck, working his way down.

When his kiss sucked at the slope of her breast and his hands began to roam her ass, she laughed and pushed on him a little, breaking their welcome home.

"Little more PG-rated there, baby," she murmured. "He's still probably only half-asleep."

Castle squeezed her ass in his hands and opened his mouth to negate her - she knew he was going to try and convince her to fuck in the kitchen, a quick one instead of venison - when they heard a soft, happy sound from the doorway.

Kate laughed and Castle slowly slid his hands up to her back; she turned in his arms and found their son beaming at them from just inside the kitchen, Sasha at his side like a twin.

"Hm, James. Why are you up?" Castle asked.

James grinned and came on into the kitchen, Sasha padding silently beside him until they both reached Castle and Kate. "You can eat my stew, Daddy."

Castle released her to lean down and pick up their son, bear-hugging James against his chest before carrying him over to the table. "We can all have stew. Welcome home stew, right? Papa said you made it."

James looked so proud of himself that Kate couldn't help leaning in to cup the back of his head, kiss his forehead. "Proud of you, sweetheart."

She sat down at the table across from them, but James stood in his chair and crawled over into her lap, wriggling down with her. Sasha settled at Castle's feet as if in consolation, and Castle's lips twitched, pushing a bowl her direction.

But Kate cuddled her son, surprised by his closeness and touched as well.

It was those little fingers wrapped around her thumb moment and she found herself equal to the challenge so far, every time.

—–


	174. adult bath toys

**#220**

* * *

 _3 word prompt: adult bath toys_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

She doesn't mean to walk into the tiny shop in DC; she definitely didn't expect Castle to follow her.

 _Adult_ it says in neon pink letters. DC is usually so clean, but they're off the beaten path, nowhere near the Smithsonian museums, wandering through back alleys and side streets as they head back to their rental place.

 _Adult_ it screams inside the shop. Adult.

She's six months pregnant, and showing, and the look on his face, when she turns to glance at him, is somewhere between hot and bothered.

"You said no sex," he growls in her ear. hands planted on what used to be her hips. She's solid line from her arms to her ass, and she really doesn't love it, but what can she do? She's already too awkward to run, and this time the morning sickness is more like all-day sickness.

 _Twins_. She could kill him for knocking her up.

"Beckett, you specifically said no sex. You can't lead me in here and expect me to behave."

She runs her fingers over bright packaging, pokes inside to feel the rubbery silicon. "Look, purple glitter."

"On a _dildo_ ," he hisses. "Beckett, if you do not get your hand off that thing I'm going to maul you right here and now."

She sneaks a look behind her at her long-suffering husband, but for the first time he does actually look like he might molest her.

She's surprised to find she wishes he _would_. Just grab her and push her into an empty room and have her. She's so tired of complaining and not feeling well and hormones and looking at herself in the mirror and measuring the stretch marks.

"What is _that_ look for?" he growls.

"I just…" She finds tears stinging her eyes at just how stupidly _helpless_ she feels, and she can't _believe_ he hasn't tried just _once_ this trip to seduce her. Not once.

"You said _no sex_ ," he hisses, hunkering in low, as if curving his body to her curves. "Kate. God. Are you crying?"

"Shut _up_ ," she growls back, but it comes out a lot more weepy than that. "These damn _twins_. I hate being pregnant with boys. They suck."

He chokes on something that had _better_ not be a laugh, and his hands come up to cup her face. "I really love you. I do. And if you want me to - we can _work_ at it, you know? We can find what works so that you're comfortable and you don't feel like - uh - well-"

"A beached whale?" she mutters.

"No, honey, not at all. Look, hey, look, you walked into the perfect store. Let's take a turn through the back where the good stuff is, and maybe we'll be inspired."

She swallows roughly (she really hates how _weepy_ this pregnancy has made her; these kids better be grateful). "Okay," she gets out, working her jaw to prevent tears from sliding down her cheeks. It's pathetic. It's a little desperate too, because she never meant for him to obey her.

Yeah, she _hears_ how it sounds, she just can't help it.

"Okay, hey, look at this-"

"Oh, God, no," she shudders.

"But we've used this before-"

"No."

Castle's lips press into a line but he's not deterred. He pushes on, almost dragging her behind him, holding up one item after another. She's not interested, not interested, definitely no, and then her eyes catches on something - different.

She reaches past him for the yellow rubber duck and Castle goes very still, waiting on her, barely breathing.

"It's kind of obscene, isn't it?" she says quietly, turning it over in her hands. They're getting looks, even in here, because she's so hugely pregnant (when she was six months with Lily, she barely showed; everyone said they couldn't believe she was pregnant, but that _was_ right after severe trauma and she was at least twenty pounds lighter to begin with-)

"It's - uh - interesting."

"It's a rubber duck." She bites her bottom lip. "A vibrator, I guess?"

"Yeah."

"I don't know why it's so appealing," she admits. "The duck bill is - I don't even know what that's supposed to be for."

"Me either," he gets out. His hand comes to rest on her shoulder, a thumb digging into that knot she always has right where her neck meets. He smiles. "What about in the bath? The place here has a jacuzzi tub. It is a kind of vacation, you know."

She chews on her lip and lifts her eyes to him, the rubber duck in her hands. "Are you - sure you want me?"

"Oh, God, Kate." His arms _crush_ her, tight around her neck so that their torsos cant into each other, the bump not quite as much in the way. "I want you so much I could explode."

She lets out a slow breath, hips popping as she shifts.

He kisses the corner of her mouth, hard "Get all your bath toys, Beckett. We're gonna have some fun."

—–


	175. Kate and her kids

**#222**

(AU Spy, AKA Trauma Spy/Spy Twins. This just happens earlier in that story line, a few days after Beckett and the twins have been liberated from Black's facility.)

* * *

 _Prompt: Kate and her kids_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

As she settled into the far back seat of the SUV, she realized her palms had left sweaty prints on the leather.

They were leaving New York. She was leaving the city where her mother had been brutally murdered in front of her, leaving the lonely streets her father had wandered searching for her. She had lost her old life three years ago when Coonan had sold her to John Black, but there'd always been that hard knot of hope - one day.

But one day was gone. She'd lost it irrevocably when Rick Castle had broken the news to her, _your father was killed. Looking for you._

And now Rick Castle was going to take her out of here. These boys, the ones she hadn't any choice about, _he_ wanted them. She didn't even owe it to him to come along, but where else was she supposed to go?

Kate glanced to the sidewalk and saw Castle coming out the front door of the apartment safe house with both boys in his arms. Castle's brother, Colin, was ambling forward to help - or maybe to purposefully not help, messing around, poking fun at Rick's predicament.

Sure enough, Colin didn't take either boy; he let Castle do all the work, though Col did open the back door for his brother. Castle grumbled something and set James on his feet on the floorboard.

"Over there, Jack. Wyatt's going in here."

 _Jack?_ Kate leaned forward, reaching out a hand, and she took James by the arm, tugged him to crawl towards the other car seat.

Jack. Interesting. James was a rather dignified name, but Jack was cute, short for James, she supposed. Would the boys even have these names in ten years? Would their adopted dad call them for dinner with the names she'd chosen for them in secret, or would it be new names all over again, another false identity?

Cain and Abel. She would never call them by Black's names for them. Ten years from now, she'd still ache for James and Wyatt.

She patted the car seat in front of her, silently urging the boy up.

James gave her a sour look and wriggled out of her grip, so she let him go. The passenger door was closed; he had nowhere to run. Trapped, even if he wasn't happy with her.

She leaned back, instead watched Castle wrestle the safety restraints over Wyatt's arms. The boy had a tight grip on a bunny that he'd gotten from somewhere - Castle again, probably; he kept buying them things - and Wyatt was chewing on an ear so that it made buckling him in rather difficult.

"Here, let me have that for a second," she told the boy, reaching around the seat to take his stuffed animal.

Wyatt startled hard, comically, and turned his head. When he caught sight of her behind him, he cackled and clapped his hands, then held out his arms to her.

Kate laughed, pleased despite herself, and caught a little hand to kiss his palm. "Stay there for our trip, baby. I'll give you back the bunny in a minute."

Castle got Wyatt strapped in and nodded his thanks to her, and she gave the bunny over to the boy. Castle shut the passenger door and came around, while she reached over the seat once more and caught James so he couldn't slide out when Castle opened the door.

James gave her another dark look.

"Aren't you stubborn?" she chuckled. "Let Da-Castle get you in the seat."

His little eyebrows went up as if he'd understood the seriousness of her statement. _Yeah_ , fine, she had nearly called Castle _daddy_.

God. She was so screwed. She couldn't take care of two boys alone, and if she started calling Castle their dad, she was really setting them all up for some extreme disappointment. They weren't going to be able to play house forever. Now that she didn't even _have_ a home, she wouldn't be able to keep these boys.

Her chest tightened. James's lips turned down.

At that moment, the door opened. The wash of sunlight across James's face made him blink, stunned. Castle reached inside and picked up the boy, deposited him in the safety seat. "Okay, Jake-"

"What is this?" Kate sighed. "Are you trying out nicknames on the kid?"

Castle flushed. He _actually_ was blushing, pink cheeked and eyes downcast. His answer came in a little rumble. "Yeah, I - yeah." He gave her a somehow shy look, and she'd seen it before - on James.

It made her stomach flip, seeing him in them. He really was their father. He wanted these boys.

"That's cute," Kate said softly. "But he's not a Jake."

"Naw, he's not."

"And I think he's kinda put out with you for the names," she said, nodding to James. The boy still had that sour face for them. "Aren't you, baby?"

He turned his head to her, opened his empty fists, pleading mutely.

"Oh, shit," Castle croaked. "It's not that. I left his rag doll upstairs. Fuck. Sorry, James, my bad. It dropped but I forgot to pick it up. Be right back."

And then Castle was slamming the door closed and hustling back for the apartment building. Kate watched in stunned silence as he left them, and then she turned to Colin in the driver's seat.

"Is he - um - always like this?"

"What? Chasing after baby toys or manipulating everyone into doing what he thinks is best?"

She bit her lip. "Yeah, that last one."

Colin shrugged. Fiddled with something on the display. "Well, the only thing you gotta worry about is how damn right he always is. Makes him think he can't fail. That he'll _never_ fail - he might lose a battle now and then, but he's abso-fucking-lutely certain he will win the war."

Kate stared out the window at the blank sidewalk.

 _He will win the war._

And he wanted to keep these boys.

—–


	176. Kate Lily zoo

**#223**

* * *

 _Kate Lily zoo_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

 _My thanks to kathrynchristie for the in-person inspiration for this one, even though she made it look entirely easy. ;)_

* * *

Kate Beckett yanked on the messenger bag that doubled as a diaper bag, clenching her teeth until it pulled free. She didn't stumble backward, but it was a near thing, and Lily, of course, giggled from her car seat.

"Oh, very funny, isn't it?" she muttered at her daughter. "Why do you insist on making everything difficult for Mommy?"

"Mommy," Lily said solemnly, and then her face broke open again with giggles. "Cat. Big cat!"

"Alright. I know. I promised. Hang tight for one more minute, Lily-girl. I gotta figure out the stroller."

Kate thumbed the key fob and the trunk of their rental car clicked and popped open. With the back door still open and Lily strapped into the car seat, Kate was banking on the early morning hour to keep them from both getting overheated as Kate unfolded the stroller.

Also a rental. Castle seemed entirely adept at it, had made it look easy, but it was decidedly not.

And Castle wasn't here to enjoy Kate's sudden whimsical promise of big cats at the DC National Zoo. It was free, one of the Smithsonian's, and it opened early enough that Kate hoped to get in and out before the crowds. Rick had a lunch break at promptly one this afternoon, and she had thought to give Lily something to do other than half-drown herself in the hotel pool.

She double-checked the backseat, Lily was using two fingers to fish crackers out of the snack container (shit, Kate thought that had been in the bag, _now_ what was she supposed to give the kid when she got cranky and hot?) but at least she wasn't working to get out of her seat.

Meanwhile, Kate flipped the locks on the back folded up metal bars and shook the stroller out by the handles and-

Nothing.

How did Castle make it look so damn easy?

Kate examined the clasps and turned one of the bright red knobs, and suddenly one of the wheels slid right off and clattered to the pavement.

"What the hell?" she muttered.

The stroller was an absolute pain.

Forget it. Kate was sick to death of struggling with the thing, and it wasn't like she wasn't used to keeping a death grip on Lily's hand and reining her in everywhere. New York City wasn't stroller friendly like DC was, and theirs at home mostly sat in the closet.

Kate scooped up the wheel, tossed it in the trunk, laid the lamentable stroller on top, and she slammed the lid down. "Forget it, baby cakes, we're going without."

"Out, Mommy!"

"Yes, exactly." She bent in over the two year old and worked at the straps that Lily had managed to twist in knots. She had to unthread the cloth strap from buckle in order to even get it out of the clip, and even then it was work.

"Hard, Mommy."

"You bet it's hard," she laughed. If she didn't laugh, she'd probably cry. "Mommy's too old for this, kiddo. You might be stuck an only child."

Lily beamed, clasping her hands together, batting her eyelashes just like her daddy had taught her. "All me!"

She grinned, leaned in and kissed Lily's cheek. "Thanks, needed that." She had never been so grateful that Castle liked to teach their toddler 'tricks'.

Of course, if Lily said 'merde!' in the crowd today, she might not be so grateful. But until then, her husband was being the perfect partner even in absentia.

"Let's go see the lions, Lily-cat."

"Mew," Lily preened, climbing out into Kate's arms. "Mew, mew, me-ow."

Kate hiked the diaper bag onto her shoulder, shifted Lily in her arms, and then slammed the back door shut. She locked the car, setting the alarm, and then lifted her head.

She could totally do this.

—–


	177. exhaustion sets in

**#224**

* * *

 _Three words: exhaustion sets in ... Arraydesign㈴1_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

"I'm done," she croaks. "Tapped out. You."

Rick stays flat on his back, listening in the darkness to the sound of their son's cries slowly becoming more insistent. Which one? If he doesn't get out of bed and see after the little terror, it'll be both.

Kate groans and presses her face into the pillow.

He's not sure he can either.

"Castle."

"I'm too old for this." He wishes he were joking.

"Not fair," she mutters. Begins to rouse.

"No, no," he says, lays a staying hand on her back. "I'll go. Partners."

She whimpers in relief and when he turns his head, her mouth is already slack, her shoulders slumping into sleep.

The little terror is screeching now. Must be Jake. Usually his m.o. these days.

Castle counts to three and forces his body upright, hauling himself out of the bed and to the door. They gutted the interior of the loft after the shooting, redid everything, and now his office isn't an office - it's a nursery. Just as it was for Lily.

Coming through the door, just the sound of his presence has Jake's cries falling off into pitiful noises, like a wounded baby seal. His twin has slept through the whole thing, Reece lights out like his mother. Helps that they've pushed the cribs apart, opposite sides of the room, Reece under the windows where his black couch used to be, Jake over here on his left.

He reaches into the crib and slowly eases the baby up, a hand under Jake's still wobbly head for support. "Hey, hey, I got you," he whispers, tucking the boy into his chest, cupping his neck and head. "I'm here. You just fed an hour ago. Mommy says she ain't havin' it, kiddo."

But Jake doesn't root in his shirt for nursing, he simply whimpers on and off with Castle's pacing. Little fists tight near his face, squirming.

"Just not happy, are you?" He hums nonsense into the top of the boy's head, checks cautiously on Reece. Still out. Swaddled. Castle is envious.

It's been one after another, the boys unable to sync their schedules no matter what he and Kate try. One nurses, the other can't be woken. Finally awake, the other one is down for the count. One cries, the other cries harder.

And Lily is rather disgusted with her new baby brothers. _They're boring and smelly and cry all the time._

They do. They really do cry all the time. Premature, colicky, whatever the excuse, they're not happy, easy babies. They're not quiet about it either.

Jake is still whimpering. Unable to settle.

If he takes the baby into Kate, she'll kill him. He'll smell her and want to nurse even though he _just_ fed, and when will Kate ever sleep?

"Hey, buddy, I know. It's all very sad. But come on, let's take a little tour of our home and see if we can't settle down."

Rick slow-dances the baby towards the door, carries him over the threshold into the living room. The moonlight on the refurbished wood floors hits just right and makes all the old stains somehow glossy and shining, like pools of silver. The massive teddy bear sits at the kitchen table, since Lily appropriated the baby gift. One of her trucks is under the table, the back loader filled with glittery plastic horses.

He kisses the top of Jake's sweet head. "See your sister's toys? One day you're going to beg to play anything she'll let you." He grins at the mental image, only to have the illusion shattered by the second little boy who runs through his mind's eye. "Maybe not, huh? Built in playmate with your brother. You guys might be terrorizing her for the rest of your lives. Natural ally."

Good thing Lily is so much like her mother - domineering and controlling. She'll manage the boys just fine.

"And see the kitchen? I'll make you pancakes with smiley faces, and Mommy will make our coffee, and probably pour you guys your orange juice." Jake lets out a squeaking noise and Rick chuckles. "Alright, I know. You want milk. Milk it is, kiddo."

He wanders the loft naming things in a soft voice, filling his own head with their future here, now that they're back. Now that they _can_ be back, now that the nightmares are gone.

Not enough sleep for nightmares anyway.

So he doesn't mind pacing the floor with his little boy, this amazing little miracle that should never have been possible. But here he is, and his matched set brother in the nursery, probably sucking on his fist, and Rick has all of this in his hands, bound up close to his heart.

Jake squirms against his chest, trying to hang on.

"Let's check on Lily," he whispers softly. Once more, one more round to be sure.

And even as he climbs the stairs, he knows it's silly. She's asleep in her toddler bed in Alexis's old room, her stars on the ceiling watching over her, glowing in the darkness.

But he still has to nudge the crack a little wider and be sure she's really there, breathing.

Some nightmares are hard to shake. Especially when he's so exhausted.

—–


	178. Kate exhausted faints

**#225**

* * *

 _Three word prompt: (post couple) Kate exhausted faints_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

The storm pours its grief out onto the city, howling beyond the windows. Castle can see the smooth expanse of her back in the shadows of his room, studying her as she studies him in return.

Lying on her stomach in bed with him, Kate Beckett is every bit of a mystery as she was before he opened the door to her. Soaking wet and darkly illuminated, the way her body moved against his - those aren't mysteries. But there is so much more to her than this.

And he still doesn't know.

His fingers unfurl on the mattress. She shifts her gaze to his hand, slides her own out to meet it.

He can't help smiling as their skins brush and fingers tangle. She shifts a knee and curls in, kissing the knuckle of his thumb. His breath stutters at the eroticism of that single touch.

Her head lifts, and those eyes-

She's just gutting him out. Every look. Every touch. He has no idea how long the over-awe will last, but it leaves him tongue-tied and mute, staring at everything she allows him to see.

Kate releases his hand and begins to shift, moving to sit upright.

"What - where are you going?" he says. He feels rough inside, like his guts have been rubbed by sandpaper. He's never been so needy in his life.

"I'm gonna use the bathroom," she sighs. Turning to look at him over her shoulder. The shadows in the room as the storm beats tempo against the windows make her skin seem mottled, the play of light and dark somehow bruising.

She stands and the shape of her body is a physical blow. He groans and falls to his back, watches her walk around the foot of the bed and towards the bathroom.

Lightning licks inside the room.

Her skin is silver with the light, the sudden clear light, and he sees the patchwork across her shoulders, the small of her back, the blooming purple and blue along her ribs.

"Kate," he gasps, jerking upright.

She sways, pausing naked just before the bathroom door. One of her hands twitches.

He jumps out of bed at the same moment her knees buckle and he catches her a breath away from the floor.

He cups the side of her face and her lashes part, her eyes flickering over his face.

"What the hell happened?" he growls, pressing his thumb into another bruise just below her eye.

How had he not seen any of this?

She sighs and her lips turn into his wrist. "Lost a fight with a hired killer."

—–


	179. Go Home Castle!

**#226 (1x09 Little Girl Lost AU)**

* * *

 _Prompt: Go Home Castle!_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

He goes home because she asks.

Because a little girl is missing and the anguish in Beckett's eyes is enough to make Castle feel like this is all too real.

It's no longer play. This isn't a weekend ride-along that's stretched into a few weeks now. It's not impulsively chasing a suspect down the street with his shoe in his hand. What he does affects those around him, and he promised himself he would not be the man who made this job harder for her.

He goes home. And after a check-in kind of talk with Alexis, he worries, nursing a drink and his laptop, staring into the darkness because the words won't come.

At least, not the ones that should.

Instead, other words creep in, weaving a vision in the darkness. Beckett, alone and vulnerable in that way that makes her eyes shiny and avoid his. Beckett, nursing a whiskey, propped on the edge of his desk, staring out the window and seeking hidden stars. Familiar Beckett, her profile a darker shadow against the room and swirling the tumbler so the liquid glints and shines.

Reserved Detective Beckett finally looking at him, approaching the chair without seduction, merely purpose. She takes the glass from his fingers, sips the last of his, puts it down net to her own. She leans in and takes him by the belt buckle, tugging him to stand, face to face, still entirely a mystery in all this darkness.

A complete mystery.

Her mouth opens, and she speaks, but he can't hear a word. It's like he's tuned into a television station that won't resolve properly, the audio track is off. Her lips are flat and quick, no smile, but her hand on his belt is firm.

He doesn't know what she wants from him. He doesn't know if he can give her what it is she's looking for. What she needs.

He went home. He promised himself he wouldn't be that guy, making her job harder.

But he can't stay away.

He needs to go back, banish the phantoms and their messages in the darkness. He can't let this be all there is.

A vague thing hazes his vision, and he presses his fingers into his eyes. His glass is somehow on the desk, but he doesn't remember doing that. He ought to stop drinking now.

Especially since he's going back.

He has to go back.

Castle finally stands up, closing his laptop and placing it beside the tumbler on his desk. Something that Alexis said to him earlier tonight is niggling in his brain, something about his fantasy Beckett and her serious, sober insistence on giving him a message.

He went home. But now he's going back.

He can't stay away from her.

—–


	180. fever, cuddles, james

**#227 (Spy/Close Encounters Universe)**

* * *

 _3 word prompt- fever, cuddles, james_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

When Castle picked up his son from Jim Beckett's new place, the rich aroma of tomato sauce permeated the air. He lifted James into his arms for a hug and the boy squeezed his neck, pressing his cheek to Castle's. It was late, and he wished it weren't, but he would rather James had stayed longer with his grandfather than with Kate at home. "You smell like the moon, my wolf."

"We just took Sasha for a walk," Jim explained. He was wiping his hands off on a kitchen towel and now the dog came slinking around the corner from the kitchen. "I only gave her the leftover bits of ground turkey."

Castle shook his head, juggling James to his other arm. "It's fine. I appreciate you keeping them so late. I didn't intend to let it go on this long."

"It's all good, very good," Jim said, as if he were surveying a kingdom with relish. He leaned in and kissed James's cheek, and the boy ducked down into his father. "James and I started dinner, if you want-?"

Castle winced. "I think I need to check on Kate."

Jim nodded, slung the towel over his right shoulder to put his hands on hips. "Right. Of course. I might swing by tomorrow, if she's still under the weather."

"Please do," Castle answered. He reached for Jim's hand and then came in for a hug instead, embracing her father with all the solidarity he'd felt from the man's offer. "Please. She has the tendency to ignore my best ideas."

Jim chuckled. "She doesn't quite listen to me either, Rick. Now go on. I'll bring dinner tomorrow."

"You don't have to," he protested, but James was beginning to wriggle in his arms to get down. He hefted the kid's backpack onto his shoulder and grabbed for Sasha's leash, but his computer bag slipped down.

"I got that," Jim said softly, taking the leash from his hand. He quickly attached it to Sasha's harness - Kate had insisted they stop using the collar, that it was too restrictive, that it choked her - and then Jim straightened up.

"Thanks," Castle breathed. He hadn't much experience with Kate Beckett feverish and refusing to rest, and it was wearing him down. He was still surprised she had consented to staying home, even more surprised she'd allowed him to take James off her hands.

"You can do it," Jim told him, patting his back. "You got this."

—

Kate opened bleary eyes, saw the two of them in the doorway. Three, actually, with Sasha pushing her nose between Castle's legs.

"Come on in," she rasped. She had to pause to swallow, and the movement was like a blade down her throat.

"Hey," Castle said so gingerly. He carried James into their bedroom and stopped beside the mattress. "How you feeling, sweetheart?"

"Shitty."

"Yeah, you take anything recently?"

"Aleve at four," she murmured. Her eyes were too hot to keep open.

"It's nearly nine, love."

She groaned and buried herself deeper into the covers. "I should…" She trailed off when she glanced at the bedside table.

Empty water bottle. Empty juice glass. No pain reliever in sight.

"Damn," she rasped.

"I'll get stuff from downstairs. Water, juice, and crackers? Have you eaten anything?"

"I don't know," she admitted. She'd spent most of the day sleeping. The downfall of coming off the admittedly toxic conditions of the regimen was this pervasive vulnerability to the slightest office virus. She'd had two colds and the stomach flu since returning from Colombia.

Castle gave her a long look and then he lowered James to the bed.

"No, I don't want to get him-"

"You can't, love." He leaned in over her and brushed his lips across her burning forehead. "He's fine. James, cuddle with mommy." As if those were the magic words, Sasha jumped onto the bed at her back and James crawled into her chest, hunkering down.

Kate sighed. Castle was already out the door.

She looped her arm around James's solid little body, and he squirmed closer, just as hot-bodied as his father.

But it was nice.

She closed her eyes and touched her forehead to his, grateful for her son's rare moment of quiet and stillness against her.

"Mama."

A smile slipped across her lips; she opened her eyes.

James grinned shyly and ducked his head, laying down at her chest. She rolled to her back to give him a pillow and he cuddled right up to her, just as he had when he was a baby, curled at her neck.

She didn't feel _better_ , but she did feel loved.

—–


	181. rick, closure, candle

#228 (before season 4)

* * *

 _three word prompt: rick, closure, candle_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

When the power goes out, Rick Castle sits in the dark.

For a long time, he does nothing to ameliorate the blackout, simply sinks further into his own circling thoughts. The smart board is dark, his laptop is shut, but the mystery persists.

He's known to be melodramatic, to play up his own foibles for laughs. He would usually be ready with flashlights and mocking scary faces; he would find his daughter and cajole her into joining him in the living room so he won't be alone.

But not tonight.

Melodrama has lost its flavor, and the blackout serves only to reinforce just how very much he is in the dark on this one.

He doesn't _know_ who hired that sniper to shoot her at her own captain's funeral. He doesn't know where she is either, if she's surviving the aftermath, if she can breathe without pain, if her gunshot wound is healing faster than her heart.

The smart board has been mocking him with its questions, and for the first time in a long time, he's not sure it can be solved.

If she were here, his optimism would read its head. If she were doing this with him, he would doggedly return to it, blackout be damned.

But she's not here. She won't be here. There's a new captain in Montgomery's office, and Beckett's desk is harshly empty.

She won't answer when he calls, and her voicemail is full. He hasn't resorted to calling Jim Beckett, but in the darkness, in the dark and deep and black night, his desperation is growing restless.

Angry.

Castle shoves out of his desk chair and gets to his feet, shaking off the morose and morbid thoughts. He ignores the dead appliances and the sense of abandonment that comes with a total blackout, and he rustles up candles from the kitchen.

Two are scented - lemon and sandalwood - and the other two are without smell. He lights all four and deposits a couple on the counter, carries the other two back into his office as if he'll get any work done at all.

He won't though. This is it. This is his final - it can't go any farther. There is nothing more to find. The paper trail is gone, vanished in literal smoke, as ephemeral as Beckett herself.

He stares down at his handwritten notes, the pages of yellow legal pad he filled while collaborating with the boys. The new captain has kicked him out though, and these meager scratches give him nothing to go on.

What's the point now?

She's disappeared. The case has gone cold. The boys have been reassigned.

Castle grabs a handful of his notes, a surge of irritation choking his throat. Yellow legal pad - as if recalling her to mind, as if mimicking Beckett's usual method of working through a problem might conjure her before his desperate eyes.

Of course not. Beckett never comes when called.

In a spurt of rage (and self-loathing), Castle passes the pages over the candle's flame.

The yellow goes up quickly, catching hold like desperation itself, consuming the black-inked words and melting the blue lines. Castle holds the pages until his thumb and finger register pain, and then he drops the still-burning bundle in the decorative dish usually reserved for mail.

The notes burn.

So does his anger.

So does his urgency, going up in flame, and he gathers the rest of his notes, feeds them one by one to the flame, keeping it going, not letting it die out.

He is so very angry with her.

But it's late August and he needs to move on. He has a book tour starting in a couple weeks; it will be the ideal thing to jumpstart his life.

Let this be done.

—–


	182. Is it permenant -sic-

**#63 & #229**

 **AN: Apparently someone asked me for a continuation of #63 - twice. I forgot I had done the first continuation, so the one I did in 229 here doesn't really fit. So it's an AU!**

* * *

 _Beckett+concussion= blind (temporarily) Thank you!_  
 _— writergirl133_

* * *

He's struggling up to go after the guy, when Beckett collects herself first and races past him in the narrow alley. She tackles their suspect, full body barrel roll, both of them coming down hard.

Castle gets to his knees at the same moment the side of her head hits the brick wall and then bounces to the pavement. The suspect's skull cracks into the metal dumpster and both groan, metal and man, but Kate is very very still.

"Beckett," he croaks, his own head ringing with the blow he received. But he gets to his feet and slogs forward, shoves their suspect back hard enough to topple him again. "You're under arrest, asshole."

Kate is unconscious. He checks her pulse under her neck with two fingers, finds it steady, rounds on their suspect. The man is struggling to get up and Castle shoves him again, knocking him back, and searches for Kate's cuffs.

He cuffs the guy, pushes him to sit down against the wall, comes back to Kate. Her lashes are fluttering now, a groan slips past her lips.

"Hit your head, pretty hard," he says, just as her whole body stiffens. He lays his hand on her shoulder. "Stay down. I think you should give yourself a second."

"Tomes?"

"Got him. Waiting on the cavalry."

"Castle," she whispers. Her fingers tighten around his wrist, a claw. "Castle, I can't see."

"What do you mean, you can't see?"

She grits her teeth and tries to sit up, but it's entirely clumsy, it's her whole body pitching to one side and him having to catch her. "I can't - everything is black."

—–

 _Is it permenant? A continuation of #63_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

 _#229 (continuation of #63)_

—-

"This sucks," she grumbles.

Castle grins, though he knows it's more relief than any real amusement. Just hearing her complain makes him feel better. "Which part sucks? My having to feed you or-"

"You are _not_ feeding me, Richard Castle."

"Well, you're _blind_ -"

"I can see shadowy things," she grits out. Her hand comes up and bats away his, and she _can_ see shadows, forms. He wasn't sure he believed her. "And I can _feel_ your pity."

"No, no, Beckett, not pity."

"You're not feeding me."

How did she know he's hovering? He wants to feed her. "Well, you should eat."

"When you leave, when I'm alone to fail repeatedly without observation, then I'll eat."

"Come on. It's only me. What-"

"Castle. No."

He puts the jello cup back on the tray, and she smirks in her darkness, a twitch of her lips that nonetheless looks faintly vulnerable. "Well, you'll have to starve because I'm not leaving."

Her jaw drops. Her eyes _are_ on him, or close enough, because of the fuzzy shadows she's getting. "Castle."

"I already texted Mother. And Alexis is going to call me when her date is over."

Beckett would be staring at him if she had the ability to focus. Instead, she must be trying a little too hard because she grunts and rubs two fingers at her temples as if that might help.

"This sucks," she mutters.

"You were about to enlighten me on which part-?"

She lifts her head, drops her hands. "Almost being able to see," she murmurs. Her voice sounds young, raw. "Having the form of things but no details. I can tell you're here but…"

"No buts," he promises. "I'm here."

She shakes her head, eyes roaming sightlessly over the room. He knows she thinks too hard, she doesn't want to be a burden, she's fine, it will clear up when the swelling goes down.

All those things are true.

But he's sitting in this hard plastic chair until the swelling goes down and her sight is restored.

Castle reaches out and lays his hand over hers, squeezes her fingers.

She squeezes back, even though she's not looking towards him.

—–


	183. Officer involved shooting

**#230**

* * *

 _Officer involved shooting [Ryan]_

 _— BECKETT-LUVS-HER-GOOBER_

* * *

Castle is mindlessly surfing pinterest for - ironically? - images of surfers (not for his novel, just for distraction from the novel which is stuck in a horrendous way), when his cell phone vibrates on the desktop and makes him jump.

He snags it before the call can cut off, answers even as he checks the display.

"Captain Beckett," he effuses.

"You haven't had the police scanner on?" she rushes into his greeting. A clatter of noise in the background keeps him from understanding at first pass, but she keeps going. "You don't know. You didn't hear?"

"Hear?" he echoes dumbly.

"I need you at Lenox Hill," she says, not an answer to his question but a different kind of answer altogether. "I need you to meet me. With - with a clean shirt. And-"

"Kate?"

"It's not me," she clarifies. "It's Ryan."

—–

He strides through the emergency room doors into the pristine white and cool efficiency of Lenox Hill Hospital, the tattoo _it's Ryan_ directing his pace. The central desk is long and broad and a security officer sits behind it, palms braced on the counter.

Castle approaches, but a police officer appears out of nowhere and gives a head nod, drawing Castle into the fold. He follows the officer, a man he doesn't know, until they approach the elevators. Castle discovers the 54th lapel pin tacked to the man's collar, and his questions ping inside his head, more and more questions.

On the elevator, the officer is terse even though he says nothing. Perhaps aware of Castle's status. Perhaps simply worried for Kevin Ryan, who might be known to the youngish officer.

But once the elevator doors open, Castle finds his own way off and down the hallway, striding towards the ICU waiting room and the knot of blue standing there. Beckett is in the middle of them, though somehow standing alone, and he approaches with a dull roar in his ears.

The hem of her untucked blouse is soaked in a black-red stain of blood.

He holds up the bag he brought with her change of clothes and she takes him by that wrist, drags him out of the waiting room. He follows not just because he has to, but also because she looks broken-shelled, cracked in too many places to mend.

She pulls him into the women's restroom, but he doesn't complain, merely opens the bag and pulls out items of clothing.

She yanks on her shirt so hard that a button tears, held on by a mere thread. Her hands are shaking.

"Is Jenny-" he starts.

"She's here. Kev's gonna be okay. When through his knee. They're doing surgery. He was diving out of the way."

"Why is the 54th here?" he asks, keeping her talking. She shoves the ruined blouse into a trash can and turns back to him.

The bathroom door opens, an older woman. She stops at the sight of them, backs out again. Castle can't be bothered to care. He takes the moment's awkwardness to his own advantage, advances on Kate with purpose.

He yanks paper towels from the dispenser and wets them, begins scraping the water color stains of blood from her skin. She gives up trying, her hands fall immobile to her sides.

She meets his eyes, a bleak grief swallowing up all the color on her face.

"It's okay, you said."

"It's - mostly. It will be."

"We'll start from there," he answers softly, and then he begins to dress her.

—–


	184. Not your turn

**#231**

* * *

 _Not your turn_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

One spoon, one pint of chocolate brownie batter.

It hadn't been a good idea, but they had both thought they could share nicely. Turned out Castle kept stealing the spoon out of her fingers, like he thought it was funny, or shoveling five or ten bites into his mouth when she got up for water.

When she came back from a trip to the office for a blanket, Castle was hogging all of it, greedily spooning brownie batter ice cream into his mouth. She squawked in indignation, hustled to the counter where he was _mocking_ her with a lick to the spoon.

Kate bumped her hip into his, knocking him askew. "It's not your turn," she answered his look, giving him one back. "You're hogging all the good stuff, you asshole."

Castle laughed, gave up the ice cream to her. "Fine. All yours."

She swan dove the spoon into the last of the pint, leaning away from him in case he tried something. He merely gave her the hands-off shrug, ceding her the victory, and then he went for the freezer door.

When Castle pulled out a second pint of chocolate brownie batter and wiggled his eyebrows at her, she gaped.

He laughed and pried off the lid, peeled back the plastic seal, and grabbed a second spoon from the drawer.

"I'm a smart man," he answered.

She narrowed her eyes. "You better be sharing."

"Of course I am," he said, coming back to the counter. "I said I was a smart man."

When Castle thumped the new pint down on the counter with a flourish, Kate put the last bite of the first pint in her mouth. Humming. And then she drew the second pint towards her.

He growled her name in warning.

Kate leaned forward, pushed a cold kiss to his mouth, sharing the last of the flavor.

"How's that for sharing?"

—–


	185. 1st time no-condom

**#234**

* * *

 _3 word prompt: 1st time no-condom_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

"Oh, no, what did you _do_?"

"Me?" he hissed, not quite ducking the thwack of her arm. "Me, what did _I_ do? You're the one who said just put it in-"

"I didn't mean _without the condom_. I meant hurry _up,_ Castle. Oh my God. Oh my God-"

"It's probably not - I mean surely you can't get pregnant right now, right? All shot up?"

Her stare was withering, even as she eased out of bed. "Says the man who knocked up his first wife-"

"Hey now," he grumbled, giving her a warning as he tried to untangle from the bedsheets. She was moving gingerly even though he could tell she wanted to stalk off to the bathroom. "I've heard that if you - you know - go the bathroom right after it kills-"

"Oh my God, Rick, an old wives' tale? You have got to be kidding me." The effect is ruined by the way she doubles up, gasping, one knee hitting the mattress. "Oh, ouch. Shit."

"It's not an old wives' tale actually. The chemicals in urine-"

"Castle," she moaned, her head bowed forward.

"You need help," he sighed, finally getting his feet out of bed. His stomach muscles tightened and he forced himself up. His whole body ached, so badly, but he reached out and slung his arm around her upper back, tried to take her weight. "This was so stupid. I should never have made you-"

"I'm the one who said hey let's have sex," she panted. Naked and sweaty and warm, her flesh pliant against him. "It was really good sex despite everything."

"You only - say that - because it's been so long," she gasped.

"That could be true." He couldn't tug or she might come undone; he knew better now. Eight months of healing was eight months of mistake after mistake, but at least he could help her now.

He finally eased her upright, and when she was standing on her own two feet, no longer quite as shaky, he couldn't help squeezing her hip. Her eyes lifted to his, and he gave her a half-hearted smile. "So…"

"So if you've gotten me pregnant, I'm gonna kill you, Castle." But she turned a smile into his cheek and softly nudged against him. "Like you said, I probably can't right now anyway."

—-

Nine months later, Lily was born, scrawny and purple and screaming, a head full of dark hair - and Kate said she was worth the stretched out scar.

And she didn't kill him.

—–


	186. I'm not upset

**#235**

* * *

 _Three word prompt: "I'm not upset."_

 _— SHUTTERBUG5269_

* * *

"Mother."

Oh, wow. He only calls her 'mother' when he think it's serious.

Kate schools her face and sits down on the black couch in the office, crossing her legs and putting the book on the edge of the desk. Serious. She can do that. "Yes, Jacob. You have my full attention."

She wonders where his brother is. They were supposed to be at the same graduation party before they head out for the Hamptons tomorrow morning. Or afternoon, depending on when the boys were going to slink home.

Looks like they have an early slinker.

"Mother," he huffs.

"No, I'm listening, I am."

"You're distracted," he says, scowling. He has a fierce face, her youngest eighteen year old. All of Castle's deep set features and something of her presence. And zero charisma. He uses blunt force in words, in movement; he never seems to understand why they all talk so much, so prettily.

"I'm only distracted by you," she promises. "You're very handsome tonight. You look good in a suit, Jakey."

"Mother, I'm serious."

"Yes," she acknowledges, nodding and folding her hands in her lap. "Go on. You want to tell me something."

"I'm not going to college."

Her mouth drops open.

"I'm going into the Police Academy. Your program, Mom, which will give me an associate's degree in Criminal Justice."

"I know my own damn program," she snaps, squeezes her hands together to keep from biting his head off. "It's only an associate's. And you don't come out a police officer, Jake. It's a police service technician. You won't-"

He lays a hand over hers, and his eyes gentle. "I know your own damn program," he says softly.

She huffs, glances away from him. "Jake."

"I'm not like you guys. I'm not smart like Reece, or as charming and pretty as Lil."

"You're much prettier," she chokes out.

He sighs and takes one of her hands in both of his, and she recognizes the gesture in him as Rick's when often consoled his own mother. Especially at the end.

It's difficult to speak past the tightness in her throat. "You're smart, Jake, and you could do college without a problem if you wanted."

"I don't want."

"Don't sell yourself short, just because you've constantly compared yourself to Reece. That kid is crazy, and you know it. You're-"

"I know what I am," Jake says, lips quirking. "I don't have it, Mom, and you and Dad and Reece and Lily - you've got it. And because I grew up in this family, I have this crazy idea I'm supposed to make the world a better place. This is how I do it. Behind the badge."

"I never wanted you to be a police officer," she chokes out. "Jake. My baby-"

"Not really a baby. And you did it. Why can't I?"

She lets out a long breath, scrapes a hand through her hair even though it's not long enough for that really. Habit. She wishes Castle were here. "Have you talked to Dad?"

"He said you first."

"Coward," she scowls.

Jake chuckles, and she catches something in him that reminds her of her own father, that same reserve, the way he always kept things to himself. She has it too, or did once, though life as a Castle has rubbed away all those old walls.

"You can be anything you want to be," she tells him finally. "Even a cop."

Jake nods once, lets out a breath of his own, and leans back in the chair. "Thank you. I - needed your blessing."

Blessing, she thinks, and remembers the underweight, scrawny thing they put in her arms, the purple face and the mewling. And now this.

"You're upset," he says.

"I'm not upset." She swipes under her eye. "I'm overwhelmed."

A throat clears from the doorway and she glances up to find Rick standing there, leaning. She shoots him a foul look but he only winks at Jake. He comes into the office and sits down beside her on the couch, lays his hand over her knee.

She lifts an eyebrow and he only smiles. "I'm proud of him. He's going to beat all your top scores at the Academy."

—–


	187. What happened here 2

**#236, 269**

* * *

 _What happened here?_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

"What _happened_ here?"

She lifted her chin indignantly. "I got out of bed."

Her father crossed his arms over his chest and Kate sighed, reverting to five years old all over again.

"I collapsed getting out of bed," she admitted.

"What did I say?"

"To not?" she muttered.

"Rick will be back in an hour. If you're more damaged than when he left, I don't think he'll leave again, Katie."

She winced and nodded, hiding her face in her hand. Breathing was difficult. Life was difficult. _Living_ was difficult. Just what happened when you'd been shot twice in your own home. But if Castle wouldn't leave her alone…

"I know better," she promised. "I do." She swallowed hard and kept her eyes closed behind her hand. If she was given a minute, she might not cry. If she could breathe through the worst of it, then she might actually survive her poor decision.

"What did you need, sweetheart?"

"Noth-nothing," she answered. Her life back. Mobility. The Twelfth. Rick's smile.

No, no, she was _not_ going to cry.

"You want some water? Here, sip slowly."

She lifted her head only enough to take the water bottle, but she merely cradled it in her lap. One of her legs was twisted behind her, painfully, but she knew if she moved, she could - tear something. It was that bad.

Damn stupid idea. What had she been thinking?

 _His smile._

Her father laid a gentle hand to the top of her head. "I'm so sorry, Katie. But I don't think I can lift you back onto the bed."

"I know," she whispered.

Jim sank down beside her, put his back to the mattress, his shoulder bracing hers. She gave a shaky breath out and leaned her cheek to his shoulder.

"I know you," he said quietly. "What were trying to do?"

Her throat worked in an effort to stave off tears. "Just - I miss him."

"He's here every day."

"I miss us."

"It'll come. About the same timetable as healing will."

She grunted and he patted her knee. He knew her, yes, but he must not really understand.

Castle hadn't laughed since the day they were shot. Hadn't smiled a _real_ smile since she woke in the hospital. Hadn't cracked a decent joke or wriggled his eyebrows at her or even made a lewd comment. The _joy_ was gone.

He was broken. She had broken him.

And she had thought if she could get to the dresser, if she took it slowly, she could work her stiff and unyielding body into last year's slutty nurse Halloween costume. Which she had worn only once, in private.

No way in hell was she asking her dad to get it for her. Or help her into it.

Her father sighed and kissed her forehead. "When you're ready," he said. "I can at least be your crutch. And just think, you'll have a good story to tell Rick when he gets back."

Oh, well. He _would_ enjoy hearing how she was too embarrassed to ask her dad for help.

Or.

He might enjoy hearing _more_ how she had.

"Dad?"

"What do you need, Katie?"

She winced and slowly turned her face to him, set her jaw. "I - have something in the bottom drawer. A white - costume. Halloween costume. I was going to surprise him. I thought I could - would you get it for me?"

"Of course," her father said quickly, rising from the floor to head for the bureau. "I can do anything you need; you only need to ask. This-"

Her father's face flushed bright red.

She grimaced and leaned her head back against the mattress, but she knew her own cheeks were hot.

Jim turned, the scraps of white and lace fabric in his hands. His throat bobbed. "Ah." His eyes cast helplessly around the room. "I see."

She steeled herself, managed to inch her foot out from under her and then settle a little more stabilized on the floor.

Her father took in a quick breath. "Do - do you need - help getting this - ah - do you-" Jim broke off, stared down at the costume in his hands. It was nothing more than white thigh-high stockings and a white cut-out teddy with a red cross on the breast. Or… nipple.

Her father cleared his throat.

She realized he was waiting for an answer. "No. Dad. I do _not_ \- no. Oh my God, I should never have asked-"

"I don't need to know," he said quickly, darting forward to drop the lace and silk and sheer onto the pillow. "Let's get you up and back into bed-"

He faltered, and his cheeks flamed, and his eyes darted over her.

She sighed. "Well, at least this will do it."

Her father croaked. "Katherine. Enough."

Kate giggled, slapping a hand over her mouth, helplessly bordering on hysterical. "No, I meant - I only meant to make Castle _laugh_. I can't possibly-" She shut up fast and shook her head, even though the movement hurt deep in her chest, all the way down. "Forget it, Dad. Forget you saw anything. Don't think about it."

And he did just that, waiting on her to get her feet under her, allowing her to use him as leverage and fulcrum to collapse back into bed.

Of course she had nothing left after that, no energy or will to even attempt the costume, but she would leave it right here. When Castle got home and inevitably woke her with his hovering, she would definitely have a story.

And he might finally crack a smile.

—–

 _#236 castle smiles (trying not to cheat, but yes continuation of #236)_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

—–

The second Castle made it through the door, lurching and inelegant, Jim Beckett jumped to his feet.

But instead of the help he'd been expecting, her father closed his law journal and headed for the stairs, practically shoving Castle out of the way. "She's all yours." Mounting the steps, he paused just a fraction. "Uh, you might want to, shall we say, be patient."

The twitch of Jim's lips and the soft chuckle as he disappeared were entirely bewildering.

Castle was still stuck in the entryway with two bags of groceries - and he'd only gone out because his physical therapist had said he needed more active movement than pacing his own loft. But he wrangled them to the kitchen, dumped the fruit and yogurt into the fridge, and headed back for the bedroom with dragging feet.

He was so damn tired.

When he stepped over the threshold, Kate was sacked out in their bed, flat on her back, hair in disarray on his own pillow. He scrubbed a hand down his face, winced when he pulled the muscles of his chest. "Kate."

Her dad had scrambled to get out of here. She must be in a mood, depressed again. He had left only because she'd been doing so good today, sitting up in the chair and watching old 80s cartoons. Stupid things.

"Kate."

Her laptop was on the side table, the power cord plugged in and fully charged. He pulled the plug and shifted it away from the edge.

"Kate."

She gasped and jerked awake, and he managed to catch one of her flailing arms.

"Sorry."

"No, you're not," she panted.

"Eh." He lifted his eyebrows and she struggled to sit up, ultimately failed. "Sorry you're hurting again though. When'd that happen?"

She flushed bright red and closed her eyes. "I fell."

"Ah. Your dad made himself scarce."

"Yeah, no wonder."

"You guys fought." It wasn't a question. Her poor dad had stayed with them for the first three weeks, then bailed to do his job, let Alexis and Hayley and Martha try for a few weeks. He'd come back of course, staying in the guest room, but their home was usually sparks and flint these days.

Not to mention his own depression.

"Bad fight?"

"We didn't fight," she breathed. Her eyes fluttered open. She looked mortified. And tired. "I fell. Trying to get something."

"What?"

She pushed her hand under her head and groaned, halted her movement with a pained breath. "Oh, mis-mistake."

"What are you doing?" He reached out and brushed the hair off her cheek, untangled it from her eyelashes. "Kate. What are you doing there?" He followed the curve of her arm, pushed under her pillow.

His fingers touched lace, a little silk, and he narrowed his eyes.

She withdrew her hand and instead dropped it to her eyes. "Oh, God."

He pulled out a teddy. A sexy nurse teddy. "Oh."

"Oh, _God."_ She tried to curl up on the bed but she just - sort of rolled. "I only - it was supposed to be a joke, but I fell, and I really hurt. Oh God, I really hurt and there is no way I'm getting into that. Or you're getting into it."

He cracked, the slutty nurse costume from Halloween in one fist and her wrist in the other, laughing so hard he bowed in over her and nearly collapsed with the pain in his chest.

She opened her eyes, stared up at him. Her smile bloomed over her face, bright and wonderful, so very stunning that the laughter died in his throat. He realized he was touching her lips with his fingers, tracing her smile, and she was crying.

"Kate?"

"You're - laughing," she gasped. Lashes wide. Mouth wider. "I made you laugh."

He smiled and lowered his shoulder to her side of the bed, settled in so the pain in his chest eased. "Yeah. You did." He skimmed his fingers along her bottom lip and she stared at him, stared until he wiped the tear from her jaw.

"Missed you," she whispered.

"Likewise," he sighed, nudged in to kiss her nose. "Though your dad did warn me I was supposed to be the patient."

She giggled.

—–


	188. Headcold, Beckett, work

#237

* * *

 _Headcold, Beckett, work_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

"No, don't. I can knock off in two hours, Rick."

He rubs his forehead and stares out his office window. pressing the phone closer to his ear. "It wouldn't take that long to reach you."

"It would take an hour though. In rush hour. There's no way the car service would be able-"

"I know," he sighs. If it weren't for the tenderness at his ribs where the skin was too think, where the stitches kept pulling open and weeping- "I just wish I could."

"I know you do," she says softly. The burr in her voice is an accusation even if the tone isn't. "I'll be alright. Just have meds for me when I get home."

"I don't know why you even went in-"

"Don't start, Castle."

He whines in frustration, but it's mostly at himself for saying it in the first place. Recovery has not been kind to him, and while at first it was a funny joke ( _guess you're old_ ) it's not funny any longer. "It's not you. I'm grumpy." And gunshy. And frustrated. And depressed.

And his wife - who was shot _twice_ \- has already been cleared for desk duty and went in to the Twelfth this morning like a woman released from prison.

"Call the agent out front," she says softly. "Call Alexis. Reassure yourself. Rick. Burke says it's normal and you shouldn't put yourself through this just because you think you have to match up to me."

He growls and almost hangs up on her. Not her. But the whole idea. The impetus to need. To panic. To be a baby and do a safety check every thirty minutes even though he just went through it.

"Roll call," she says, urging him with that scratchy throat, the thick sound of her words.

"Make yourself some tea, Beckett. With honey and lemon. Damn the caffeine."

"I can have caffeine. Some. You're the one who can't - the pills. Did you have coffee this morning, Rick? I mean other than the decaf I made for you."

Did he? Maybe. "I… might have finished off the pot you made?"

"Rick."

"I forgot. And it makes me feel better."

"I'm pouring it out next time."

He grunts and leans back carefully against the leather couch. "Hot tea, Beckett. And I'm pretty sure there's a bag of old cough drops in Karpowski's shift desk."

"Gross."

"Strawberry flavored."

"Maybe."

"You can't get sick," he reminds her. Maybe they should move. Or go on vacation. Get out of this place. Before she's too pregnant to want to.

"I'm allowed to get sick. I can have some things. We've talked it over with my doctor a hundred times. Can you please not? I don't have the energy, Rick."

"Okay," he sighs, closing his eyes. "I'm sorry. I love you. I don't want you to die."

She groans softly over the phone. "Not fair. So not fair."

"You sound wheezy."

"You're driving me crazy. Is it going to be like this for the next nine months?"

"We've only got about seven to go-"

"Castle."

"Probably."

"I'm leaving now," she gruffs. "Forget the CompStats; I hate them anyway. I love you more. I'm not going to die. Call Alexis."

"I already did," he admits.

"Call the agent watching the front door."

He probably will. "I'm sorry."

"Don't ever be sorry for surviving."

Sometimes he is. He'll work on that.

—–


	189. I am sorry

#239

* * *

 _three word prompt: "I am sorry"_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

 _My mouth feels like a gym sock_ , she wishes she hadn't said.

Watching her husband move like an old man to the door, shuffling steps, his body held carefully still, Kate Beckett can't help the apology that rises up her throat. Like reflux.

But she swallows it down, burning.

Rick takes inching steps, opens his wide hand for the knob. Why did Martha close the bedroom door? She ought to know better, after all this time spent catering to the two of them in their recovery. _Kate_ would have known better if she were the one taking care of him. If she hadn't been shot twice. If she had figured it out faster, listened to Castle when he mused aloud _this doesn't make sense._

Rick twists the knob, his arm held against his side, close. He has to take those backward shuffling steps with the doorknob in his hand, just to swing it open enough for either of them to walk through.

Not that she's doing much walking. She can't even turn over in the bed without serious complications.

They told her she shouldn't rush it. But Rick was being discharged and she couldn't. She couldn't stay in that hospital without him, and she wasn't sure he could stay in the loft without her.

The stain is gone. The floors were pulled up entirely. Rick's insistence, despite the fact that it might have been possible to sand them down and restain them. Instead he had ordered the workmen to rip out fifty year old hardwood.

The stain is gone, but it can't be gotten rid of that easily.

"Back with your water," he says, his voice thin and weak as he heads down the hall. Slowly. He's not supposed to reach with either hand. He has to cross his arms gingerly over his chest whenever he stands just to circumvent that instinct to push oneself up. Just getting out of the bed was such a production she told him a hundred times to _please just lie down, please don't._

She closes her eyes and lifts her hand to cover her face. She swallows thickly, again and again, but she's too dehydrated to actually cry. Which is good, because it hurts. It really hurts and she doesn't know how much longer she can last like this.

She hasn't told him the stitches are bleeding again. She thinks he knows anyway. It's probably why he forced himself up. If he goes rifling through the first aid kit for saline solution, she'll kill him. (Except she can't _move_ , so she'll wind up actually crying, and hurting them both, and the pain killers make her so heavy-weighted, make her lethargic and sick and out of it, and she really wishes he had just stayed in bed.)

She should never have said anything. Lanie is due in an hour; her medical friend will look at the stitches and get her a water bottle and tease them both and it would have been fine, so fine.

She's not crying.

Crying hurts too much.

She can't even gulp down her breaths because it burns, pulling the muscles across her chest and sides. She has another surgery scheduled next week, to hopefully fish out the shards of her rib they couldn't get to before. Either way, breathing is misery. Life is misery. She-

"Water."

She lowers her hand very slowly, propped up on so many pillows that her eyes are level with the door. It takes just that long for him to appear in the doorway, clutching a water bottle and a fistful of stuff from the post-op kit they were sent home with. "Rick."

His face is blanched from the effort and he gives her a tight smile. His eyes are dull. He's lost so much weight that his cheeks are sallow. She wants to cry.

"Sit down," she chokes out. Her wound sites ache when she speaks. Her ribs. Hard to know which parts hurt the most.

He takes his time lowering himself to the mattress. A flash of agony twists his eyes into tight slits; he goes still. One hand loosens. The packets and pills and things spill to the mattress.

She lowers her arm, supinates her hand so that her fingers curl up into empty air. "Rick." Her throat is so dry the words scrape. "I am so sorry."

He makes the effort to turn, his knee carefully on the mattress, finally leans back against his own propping pillows. He lets out a breath. "Don't." Another breath. "Don't be sorry." His empty hand moves toward the water bottle and his fingers close around it.

And then nothing happens.

He grunts, his eyes grimacing, and she watches as he attempts to twist off the cap. It's not happening.

She should have thought of that.

He can't reach out to open a door, let alone twist the top off the water bottle.

Castle groans and tilts his head back - carefully, gingerly, everything in small measure - and all of his breath leaves him.

 _I am so sorry_. He looks wiped. Done.

"Rick." Her fingers twitch on the bed, curl and release. He glances down, sees her hand there, and he abandons the water bottle to make that dragging journey to hold her hand.

When their palms kiss, their fingers twine.

It's enough.

* * *

I hope you are still taking three word prompts.. my prompt is: 'I failed us'

— ANONYMOUS

#240 (follow-up to #239)

* * *

Helpless and ineffectual, half on the mattress and half off, utterly worthless to anyone at all, Rick Castle can't even keep a firm grip on his wife's hand.

He can't open the damn water bottle. He can't open a door. He _hates_ this.

Kate whimpers. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry-"

"I failed us," he interrupts. "Don't be sorry. It wasn't you. I knew - the whole thing felt off, but I was glad for it to be over."

"No, you didn't-"

"I did. And instead of being smarter about it, I just got you shot-"

"Rick, it's only the pain killer talking, and you know it."

His jaw works. Her hand is weak in his but he feels the way her fingers tremble as she tries to grip him with any kind of strength. She can't, and he can't make her feel better by gripping her hand tighter and giving her that connection. He can't even be helpful.

"Rick-"

"I'm supposed to be taking care of you," he blurts out, sinking his head back against the headboard again. "I'm supposed to be getting you water when you're dehydrated and need to take another round of meds. I'm supposed to ease your walk to the bathroom with a hand at your elbow. I'm the one who ought to be asking you which camisole won't irritate your stitches, and it should be my hands pulling it up your thighs and keeping it from hurting you."

"It was only that first time," she whispers. When Martha got her ready to be discharged, tried to help her pull on clothes.

He grunts. "Doesn't make me feel better. I would have been careful of you, I would have treasured you." He lets the water bottle roll off his lap, unable to even breathe correctly after his trek down the hall to the kitchen. "I would've been the one to open your car door. I would've leaned in and wrapped my arm around your hips and kept you from using your upper body at all. I wanted to seat you in the wheelchair and push you onto the elevator and get you settled. On the couch, I think, where you could see everyone, where you wouldn't be cloistered away in the dark."

She sighs.

"I want to change your bandages and check the stitches and your skin and make sure it's healing." He knows he's moved from conditional and hypothetical to telling a story, but he can't help it. "I want to help you up," he whispers, so bleak with the image he sees in his own head but can't possibly make happen that it chokes his throat. "And I want - I want to make you smile by being a little goofy, I want to make you coffee you'll fall asleep before you can drink, I want to stroke the hair back from your face and worry about how your skin looks like parchment and kiss your forehead to wish you better dreams."

He opens his eyes. It all hurts. He can't do a damn thing for her.

"And most of all, I want to not be your whining idiot of a husband who can't keep his mouth shut, who has to _keep talking_ in some foolish attempt to make it better when clearly it can't be made all better. And worse - because you _hate_ talking, you stay silent and power through it, stoic and impressive and strong as hell, and you're probably over there wishing to God I'd shut up-"

She laughs.

His eyes flare open.

Her lips are pressed tightly together, her nostrils flared, but there is real mirth in her gaze. Which is locked on him with such strength it makes up for the limpness of her wrist and the weakness of his fingers.

"Wishing it a little," she says finally. It allows her lips to spread, that wan smile flirting with her mouth. "Not too much though. Sound of your voice helps put me to sleep."

He grunts his own mirth at that. Smiles back at her.

She's probably serious about wanting him to shut up. His talking only brings her down. But at least he made her smile.

He's not a complete failure.

"Love you," she says, her voice rough. "You know?"

"I know." He bobs his head, though it hurts his shoulder somehow. "Love you back."

—–


	190. Biting his tongue

#241 (based on an experience I had Friday in the middle school office)

* * *

 _2\. Biting his tongue_

 _— AWESOMEBAZAN27_

* * *

It's one of her rare days off.

Kate has decided to methodically go through their Thomas Hardy collection again, starting with _Tess_ even though she can't remember whose copy this is. From the first page, the scene doesn't strike her as familiar, and so she's rapidly absorbed in the narrative.

Until Rick hollers and something crashes and the _wailing_ is so loud she can't stay in the book.

Kate is just about to set it aside and see what's the matter when her youngest comes careening into the room, his father after him, his mouth hanging open in breathless sobbing.

And lots of blood.

"Oh my God!" Kate jumps to her feet, zeroing in on him, but her words for Castle. "What happened. Rick. Snap out of it."

His horror clears off and he shakes all over. "We were wrestling. I - tackled him but I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to-"

She kneels down before Jake and cups his head in her hands, tilting his chin up. Blood pours out and mixes with his tears, his scream echoing like a cannon in her head. "Hush, baby, it's okay. It's okay. Scared you, I know. Rick-"

"He bit through his tongue."

She jerks her head sharply up towards him. "Bit _through_ his tongue," she hisses.

"Yeah, I - God. There's so much blood. I think I'm gonna-"

"Don't you dare," she growls. "Dead bodies, Dumpster trash - all far more vile than this."

"Ma-MA," Jake wails.

She turns back to his wide open mouth, and the blood, and his tears, darts in to kiss his sweaty forehead. "Stick your tongue out for me, sweetheart. Let me see-"

She breaks off with a slow roll of her own stomach when Jake pokes out his tongue. The movement causes the wound to separate, gaping wider, and she's suddenly not sure she can do this either.

"Call-" she croaks, has to take a deeper breath to go on, "-call Lanie. Ask her - what we can do. What we're supposed to do. Where's my phone?"

"I'll call," Rick rushes on. "You just-"

"No, I want to google it," she mutters, leaning past him to scoop her phone off the bed. "Come here, baby, come to the kitchen. Let's get some water and swish it around in your mouth."

Jake wails harder; she knows it's going to hurt. Cold water. But she hustles him forward anyway, has to stop and pick him up even as she types into her phone with one thumb.

"Castle?" she calls over her shoulder.

"Yeah, I'm calling. I'm calling."

"Walk and talk, Castle."

"Coming."

She settles Jake on the counter and stays him with a hand on his knees, waiting for her phone to load results. Google helpfully pops it up at the top, the steps to take-

"Oh, good. Mommy's smart," she breathes. "Water. And - oh God - salt water. Okay, let's just - swish some water around, honey. Hang on."

Reece has crept to the baseboard of the center island, watching his twin with huge eyes. She snags Castle's arm and points, and he turns, the phone against his ear, and picks up Reece. She hears him leaving an only slightly hysterical message on Lanie's phone.

She hands Jake the cup. "Carefully, baby. Just tilt your head back a little. There we go. Oh, I know, I know. It doesn't feel great. But the cold will help numb it and the water will keep it clean." She winces at the gurgling wail he gives, the anguish on his face, and she pushes a hand between his shoulder blades. "Lean over and spit into the sink."

Reece does, and it's all pink and red with his blood. She feels her stomach roll again, and Castle was so right - it's much harder to handle when it's their own kid.

"What can I do?"

"He needs salt water."

" _Salt_ water. No way."

She holds up her phone for him to see. "That's what it says."

"Oh God."

"I know. But it stops the bleeding. And then gauze and an ice cube to keep it from swelling."

"Stitches?"

"This says you can't really get stitches in your tongue."

He tries to chuckle, reaches past her to ruffle Jake's hair. Reece tries to hug her neck from Castle's arm and she pats him absently.

Rick palms the back of Jake's head, kisses his forehead too. "I know, kid, I'm so sorry. But now is the perfect time to get that tongue piercing!"

"Castle," she snaps, "Salt."

"Going. Coping mechanisms, Kate. We've talked about this."

"Not the time."

She gets poor Jake's pitiful whines and whimpers as she forces him to take another mouthful. He gags but it's just the water that he spits out, thank goodness, and he's immediately crying and burying his face in her shirt.

"Okay, I know. It's scary. Here, baby, little bit more."

He gives her a meager _noooo_ but he takes another mouthful, makes a half-hearted attempt to swish it around, then spits it out in the sink. More pink, less red, which is good, she thinks.

"Open up. Let me see."

Oh, hell. That's - not right.

"Here's salt," Castle says, trying for cheerful again. Reece is like a monkey in his arms, clinging tightly, not looking. She takes the salt grinder and twists out a few shakes into the cup, but Castle grunts in disapproval. "Need more than that."

"It'll - hurt," she whispers.

"But it has to _work_ or it's not worth it in the first place. Stops the bleeding. I remember making Alexis gargle salt water when she got her tonsils out."

Kate wrinkles her nose but grinds a few more times, getting a dash or two of salt into the water cup. Castle hands her a spoon and she stirs, and then raises it reluctantly to Jake.

"Okay, swish this around, and then we'll put ice on it, Jakey."

Castle is bouncing Reece in his arms. She's glad Lily is at Alexis's tonight; she couldn't handle that girl's dramatics right now.

Jake opens his mouth like a bird and she helps him pour a little in.

Only to have it spewed back at her, briny water and blood. She managed to close her eyes in time, but oh - of course - Rick and Reece are laughing.

And maybe Jake is a little bit too. In between horrified.

Kate uses her sleeve to swipe off her face, cracks an eye.

She turns to Castle. "Okay, then. Your turn. And Jake, baby, should've warned you. It's going to sting."

"It's gonna hurt like a bitch," Castle mutters, taking the cup from her and handing off Reece.

"Mama-" Jake mumbles, eyes shifting to panic. He leans out after her, but she pats his knee, squeezes.

Castle grips the back of Jake's neck, implores him with a long look. Jake shuts his eyes and opens his mouth again.

For one breathless second, she thinks he's going to spit it out again. But then a shudder rolls over his face and he squints, begins shifting his jaw to swish the salt water around.

"Oh, good boy, good boy," Castle chants softly. "You got it.

Jake gives a shuddering gulping cry and then leans over the sink to spit it all out. The water is pale pink, lighter in color than even the spray staining her sleeve.

Jake sits up. She and Castle wait for it.

He grins. "I talk!"

"How's it feel? Show me," she demands, pushing Castle aside and handing off Reece again. "Open your mouth, sweetheart."

Jake sticks his tongue out and the bleeding has stopped. Just that fast. He has a half moon red-rimmed gap in his tongue near the end, and as he grins at her, the edges separate and the gap becomes wider.

"Oh, G-" She swallows hard. "Good. That's good. Let's - uh - Rick. What - what does it say-"

"Pressure on the wound - gauze. And ice to keep the swelling down. And then I think we're taking him in to see somebody. That can't be right."

She can't take her eyes off it. "Can't be right."

"Maybe superglue," Castle mutters.

She knows it's not good when _superglue_ makes sense.

—–


	191. Kate Beckett, FDNY

**#243**

* * *

 _Kate Beckett, FDNY_

 _— JYLEAFER15_

* * *

The winter is bitter. Her face mask has fogged with her own breath, and she pushes it back off her head, sweat immediately freezing. The wind screams in her ears, a combination of intense cold and the strange and unreal anger of the flames at her back.

"Sit down before you fall down!" her chief yells.

She obeys because she really might fall down. Her ass hits the sidewalk and she dips her head between her knees. Just because she's the only woman in her fire station, doesn't make her alone in this. She was one of three in her NYFD graduating class nearly ten years ago, joining fifty-three women in the ranks. But it doesn't make this easy, overcome by heat exhaustion, dehydration, and a twelve-hour shift followed by a five alarm fire. An eighteen week rigorous training program had prepared her for the grueling hours but not the destruction, the endless, terrible annihilation of life.

They're going to lose the whole warehouse; they're going to lose those two detectives inside too. In her ten years, she's lost one homeless woman they hadn't known was inside. One. And now-

"Here."

Beckett lifts her head and sees first the white flag of the paper cup, and then the hand offering it.

She takes the cup, eyes distracted by the pale skin in the darkness, the glow of the fire across those fine hairs. Male. She swallows mindlessly and chokes on the water, has to straighten up to catch her breath. Tears are streaming from her eyes as the smoke's irritation finally catches up with her.

The man sinks down at her side, smelling like smoke and laundry, impossibly enough.

"Need another?"

"No," she croaks. Her voice is raw. Hoarse. Her gear is still on her back. She's wiped.

"You off duty?"

"Yeah."

"Those are my - my friends in there."

Damn. She presses her hand to her eyes and hunches inward.

"About six years ago, they arrested me for a couple murders-"

She jerks upright, her head coming around to him. He winces. His eyes are dark blue, like frozen ice on the lake. Her cheeks are wind-chapped, her lips, but the heat at her back makes her sweat. He winces.

"I'm a mystery writer," he says, shakes his head. His hair falls in his eye, and he rakes it back with a gesture that suddenly has his whole face lighting up in the darkness for her. "The murders were from my books."

"You're Richard Castle," she says dumbly.

He sighs. "Those are my friends in there. And if… I consult with the NYPD. It was my idea that sent them in there. I don't - I can't-"

She struggles to her feet, feeling her body rock backwards at the weight of the gear on her back. She knows better, but she can't bear that look in his eyes. "Let me get the - chief. Let me-"

"I've already talked to him," he sighs, standing with her now and putting his hand at her elbow as if to keep her upright. "He's busy doing his job and I don't want to pull him away from that."

She's appalled to find she needs the support. Her body seems to want to rebel.

"I just wanted - company I guess. I wanted someone to tell me it's not as bad as it looks."

But it is.

He turns his face away from her.

She can't help reaching for his hand and taking it, the cuff of her turnout jacket so wide that it hangs at their fingers. He squeezes hard, and he stares into the angry flames.

She's sweating profusely now, her extrication gloves stuffed into a pocket of the turnout jacket, her Level 2 Extreme pants so stifling she might have to sit down again.

But she won't let go of his hand.

—–


	192. No Shave November

**#244**

* * *

 _Three word prompt: No Shave November._

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

"What is this?" she finally asks, scratching her fingers at his bristle.

"No Shave November."

She tilts her head back and sees half his face, an eye and those long light-limned lashes. "Uh-huh."

"Laziness," he sighs. Scratches his chin himself.

"Itches, does it."

"Mm."

"Me too," she mutters, but drops her cheek back to his good shoulder. Lazy Sunday, he said this morning, begged a little. She agreed but it's not really a decision, is it? When she can't get out of bed without help. When everything is so tender and sensitive, tears prick her eyes just from standing up.

"You too?"

"The beard. Itches."

"Hardly a beard."

"No, you're right. It's in that scruffy… greasy stage."

"Greasy," he grunts.

"The five o'clock shadow is nice, sexy even." She taps at his chin and then drags her nail in a long line down the bristle at his throat. "But this is half grown in and patchy-"

"Thanks. Another blow to my manhood."

She doesn't have the energy or coordination to try lifting her head a second time to look at him - and she's been in bed all damn day. Somehow makes it worse, not even getting out of bed. Like she has to work herself up to real movement, like she needs momentum to get her going.

But if she could lift her head, she's distressingly certain she would see not just the scruff but also the deep lines of depression on his face.

He's lost forty pounds since the shooting. He can't seem to keep the muscle, despite physical therapy three times a week. His shoulder wound should be healing but it's not. And nothing he does makes her feel any better than her baseline miserable. None of it is his fault, but he takes it on himself anyway.

"No Shave November," she repeats softly. She drags the pads of her fingers along his jaw, forces her chin up so that her lips meet the same abrasion. "By the time I can enjoy it, you'll have a nice Grizzly Adams hipster thing going on." She gives him another rubbing kiss, hoping to put a little spark in him. "But if it's long enough to braid, babe, I'm gonna insist on a trim."

He says nothing at all to that, but she _feels_ him smiling. Her fingers are resting right at his jawline anyway, and something about the atmosphere in their bedroom shifts.

He doesn't squeeze her - she can't bear it (and that's probably a blow to his manhood as well) - but he does bring his hand up to the back of her head, comb his fingers through her hair.

"You've got a deal," he says finally. His voice sounds rough.

Kate shifts her knee and manages to rub her calf against his. He twitches and she feels the fine hairs on her leg catch his. "Small catch. No Shave November?"

He laughs, his hand falling down to the back of her knee and gently tugging up. With her thigh now over his, she has the support for her ribs and shoulders, and it feels better leaning into him.

Feels perfect.

"Alright," he murmurs, a little dramatic puff of air. But a chuckle still in his voice for all that. "No Shave November for both of us. Though I think you've had a few months head start."

She closes her eyes, smiling, glad at least to have accomplished _one_ thing today.

—–


	193. just a dream

#246

* * *

 _just a dream_

 _— OHSWEETDARLING_

* * *

He feels her violent startle in the bed, shaking the mattress, and his eyes open in the darkness. Not that he'd been asleep, his brain has been buzzing, but he's surprised by the tension in her body.

"Kate?" he whispers, sliding a hand across the mattress to touch her back.

She shivers and the tension across her shoulders pinches at her neck before dissolving. He slides in behind her, scooting across the mattress to take up position at her back. He kisses the rise of her shoulder and tucks his cold nose into the spot where her neck curves.

She flinches but settles again, and he's not sure she's awake until her fingers uncurl and her hand lifts to touch his jaw. Back to his ear. And she breathes out.

He settles too. The darkness shrouding the room is like a blanket, but her skin glows as if luminescent. He wraps an arm low around her waist and pulls his knees up to encove her.

She says nothing; her body grows heavier, as if slack, within the harbor of his own. He can smell the sharp botanical of her shampoo and the musk of lotion she layered over her skin before bed.

Whatever thoughts that kept him awake are slipping beneath the surface. He adjusts his head on her pillow and skims a hand at her ribs, smoothing her shirt. She's asleep, so far gone her skin doesn't even ripple at his touch.

He's soon to follow.

—–


	194. Kate, Lily, Snowflakes

#247

* * *

 _Three word prompt: Kate, Lily, Snowflakes ( Advent AU maybe?) Please :)_

 _— HAWKGAL08_

* * *

 _(Advent AU - okay bear with me on some details: if the finale had occurred in the Advent universe, let's say still at the loft where Beckett and Castle were sneaking around to be together, rather than at their house from Advent, it would only reinforce they idea they had from Advent that they needed a place untainted from violence, so back to their Christmas Advent home they'd go.)_

* * *

"Mommy, look. I made it in school!"

The first words upon her arrival home come not from her husband leaning in to kiss her with that look in his eyes, but from her too-serious almost-four year old who sneaks in between their feet and leans heavily into her legs.

Kate withdraws from Rick reluctantly, receives a wink and a flat palm in command. She unclips her concealed weapon from its shoulder holster, ejecting the clip as he watches before she lays both on his outstretched hand. He leaves her in the entryway with Lily, who doesn't look happy to be ignored, to mount the stairs for the second floor - and the safe in his office.

"Did you hear what-"

"I heard you, Lil. Show me what you made." She cups those cheeks, tilting that mulish face up to hers before she lets go to dump her bag in the foyer, and her coat on the coathook. Lily has already run back for the kitchen, where apparently her preschool artwork is hanging, whatever it is.

Kate follows more slowly, slipping out of her heels, shedding the holster and harness - a birthday present from Rick that first year back on the job, when she was still balking at pulling her weapon. Just like the first time she'd been shot, shakiness and flashbacks were companions for about eight months before mastery came along again.

As well as Lily, and perhaps the two went hand-in-hand. A sleek, gorgeous, and badass custom leather holster - and a perfectly stubborn, gorgeous, probably eventually badass little girl. One had led to the other.

"Mommy, _seriously_ ," Lily huffs, hands on her hips.

Kate narrows her eyes in return for the attitude and instead is brought to a halt by the six little snowflakes hanging suspended from the pot rack. Her mouth opens but nothing comes out.

"Lily made those in preschool this morning," Castle says from behind her. Kate spins on her toes and still can't speak. He slides an arm easily around her waist and now takes his kiss, interrupted at the door.

She sighs softly and hears their daughter's little growl of frustration at not being center of their attention, but that will have to change soon anyway. If their four weeks' hope makes it to the second tri-

"Mommy."

Kate swallows the emotional buzz and pulls away from Rick to face her daughter. "Those are very beautiful, Lily. I love them." She reaches out a hand and touches one of the more butchered white paper snowflakes. Her daughter doesn't have an artistic bone in her body. "Can I show _you_ something now?"

Lily is caught off guard by the request, her eyebrows raising comically. "Oh, of course. What are you going to show me?"

"Rick," she says quietly, a question in her voice, her own eyebrows raising.

He nods, gestures to the red-topped storage container on the dining room table. "Pretty sure I saw them in there lying flat between Alexis's hand wreath and your own."

She flushes for that, moves through the kitchen back to the dining room. Their Advent calendar is set up here already, though of course it contains chocolate kisses for Lily now rather than the little gifts they used to give each other. Big gifts - her engagement ring was in this calendar, as well as-

"What is it, Mommy?"

Kate withdraws from daydreams, though Christmas decorations always seem to bring that on, and instead she pops the lid off the storage container (not their only). She digs through the stacks of childhood artwork, ranging from her own to Alexis's and finally Lily's own, until she finds the handmade snowflakes.

"I have a story to tell you," she says softly, because lowering her voice always snares Lily's attention. Kate reverently pulls out the cardboard box and opens it, sits down at the dining room table with Lily at her knees. "When I was your age, my mother made those snowflakes with me, just as you made them today."

"Your mommy in heaven?"

"She was still here then," Kate sighs, tucking a dark strand of Lily's hair behind her ear, brushing her fingertips against the round forehead. "Still with me. I made one in school, and I brought it home, and I sat down with her and taught her to make them."

Lily's nose wrinkles in consternation, and that warm heart shines through, the hesitation in her eyes almost amusing. "But, Mommy - I think - see my teacher said… I think your Mommy already knew how to make them. The kids get taught, not the mommies."

Kate's laugh echoes Rick's - she can hear him listening in at the kitchen doorway - and she leans in to kiss Lily's forehead. "Yes, sweetheart, you are right. But I was pretty stubborn and - and - and a know-it-all, and I thought I was teaching _her_ something. So we made snowflakes every Christmas together, just the two of us. And my mom would hang them up in my room with those pretty white fairy lights, all from my ceiling…"

"Oh," Lily gasps. "Mommy."

"Would you like to do that too?"

"I really so would," she begs, leaning in on Kate's knees. "Can I have all of these in my room? And the ones I made? And can _we_ make some too?"

Kate has to stifle the instinctive urge to cover the snowflakes in her lap as if to protect them. Even now, so long after. "Y-yes," she stumbles.

But Castle saves her. "Lily-anna, we must very very careful of Mommy's Joanna snowflakes. We'll let Mommy do all the touching, and the hanging, and once they're up in your room, you don't jump, you don't smack them, you-"

"I will be so careful. With my fairy lights and my snowflakes like walking in a winter wonderland!" Lily leans in and hugs her around the neck, so tightly, that Kate can feel her daughter's little heart beating like a frantic butterfly. "And you'll make some with me every night?"

Kate lets out a breath and pets down her daughter's hair. "Every night, huh?"

"For all the days of Advent," Lily answers, impish and proper as she straightens up. And all too clever.

Rick melts first, and Kate can see his mushy heart all over the floor, but knows hers is there too. She takes Lily's hand and kisses it. "You're right, of course. Every night of Advent. Have Daddy find us paper and scissors - and those glitter pens."

Rick makes a face at the idea of glitter pens but she shoots him a look and instead he huffs and lets Lily lead him towards the playroom at the back of the house.

Her daughter might have zero artistic talent and no skill with scissors, but Kate knows she'll cherish the crooked, butchered things just the same as the ones in her lap. Made by herself and Rick, made by her mother.

Now made by her daughter.

—–


	195. Perfect for me

#248

* * *

 _Three word prompt: Perfect for me_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

 _(with help from the mermaid legend of Thessalonike)_

* * *

Kate props her head up on a hand, elbow digging into the fine white sand. The sun has bleached the sky. Even the waves are sluggish.

Rick is asleep beside her, half off the beach blanket. She's still half damp from a dip in the pool on her way to find him, and it feels nice to soak up the sun for a little while.

As if called, his eyes slide open under the sunglasses, his head turns towards her. She smiles wordlessly and shifts to brush the hair off his forehead.

He practically purrs. She leans in and touches her lips to his temple, tasting sweat and coconut sunscreen, feeling the heat that emanates from his skin.

His hand shifts and slides between her damp thighs, his thumb rubs grains of sand at the inside of her knee. Feels good though, almost raw, a sharp point of awareness along her soporific, sun-drenched body.

Kate combs her fingers through his hair, slowly, watching each strand be disarranged and mussed by her touch. His hair is fine and baby soft at his temples, and these long days in the sun have limned him with gold.

She kisses the red at his cheekbone, temperate. She bumps the frames of his sunglasses as she moves around them for his eyebrow. She touches his childhood scar with a thumb and then with her lips, a sense of salt there.

A rumble comes up from his chest like a question. She doesn't answer, instead shifts closer so that her damp skin chafes his. Her chest leaves a damp ring at his shoulder. He turns his head in to study her and squeezes her knee with sand-gritty fingers.

She's thrilled to be alive.

She could melt over his body on this blanket along their private beach and never move again, and she's thrilled to be alive for it.

She could kiss every sun-deepened wrinkle at the corner of his eyes, every laugh line highlighting his mouth, and she would not have enough.

He says nothing, uncharacteristically, and watches her until he has to push his sunglasses up on his head and squint into the light.

Kate shifts to loom over him, block out his sun, give him the space to see, to breathe, the shadow to know her.

He takes his sunglasses off completely and drops them in the sand before lifting to cup her face.

"Are you a mermaid?"

She smiles and leans in, hovers just above, twining both legs around his like a tail.

He grins and snakes a strand of her hair behind her own sunglass earpiece. "I ask because I seem to be the only one who can hear your siren song."

She leans in and lightly kisses him for that. A promise of the ocean in the salt between them. "Then you know you have to answer my question correctly if you wish to sail this sea."

His lips give her a crooked smile. "I've caught a dirty mermaid." His leer is entirely too endearing with those tan lines. "But I can prove my valor."

She comes tantalizingly close to tease him with the riddle. "Is Alexander still king?"

His grin is even wider. "He lives and reigns and conquers the world," he murmurs correctly, darting up for a kiss that she chases after. "As well you know."

"Guess it means you're perfect for me." She strokes two fingers down his cheek and under his jaw. "Now dry my tail and carry me home."

—–


	196. Cover your eyes

#250

* * *

3 words: Cover your eyes

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

Her toes are pinched at the narrow angle of her boots, her heels so tall that she fits easily against his back, draped forward over him. He catches her arm as it winds around his neck, laughs in that rough register he has these days, low and dirty.

A thrill zipping through her.

"No peeking," she says. "Cover your eyes."

He chuckles again but obeys once more, lifting his hand from hers to block his view. She nudges him with her hips, a bump and rock to get him moving forward, and he takes shuffling steps across the threshold.

She leans hard into his back, up on her toes, her abdominals stretched to capacity just to reach around him. "Okay," she says in his ear, breathing a little fast at just the thought. "Okay, babe, open 'em."

She feels the movement of his arms as he lowers his hand, and then the hard startle of his whole body.

The break room is lit only by a sea of candles which throw their dancing light along the walls, and the flames shine and gleam in the espresso machine. Upon the cafe table near the window overlooking the empty bullpen rests a lone white cup.

"You made me coffee?"

"I told you I owe you a million and more," she breathes, sliding around to his side. His arm draws around her waist and pulls her close; she's out of practice with the heels and she stumbles into him. "This is just one in an ocean." She turns her cheek against his, a soft kiss. "Happy anniversary." Her sigh against his ear makes him tighten his arm around her and she nips the corner of his mouth. "I'm sorry I've had to work."

"I'm glad you're working," he says immediately. "I'm grateful we're alive to be back here, at the Twelfth together where it all started. Kinda romantic this way, Captain Beckett."

She smiles because he always can find her silver linings. Thirteen hours on her feet only a month into her reinstatement, their wedding anniversary today was largely lost in the flurry of physical therapy, doctors' check-ups, meetings, and bad news. She's needed him and she's had him, and tonight they'll take their time where it all began.

"Although, technically-" His eyebrows wriggle as he grabs her by the hips, pulls her hard against him. "We should take this celebration to the interrogation room."

Kate laughs, winding her arms around his neck to press in close. "If it weren't for our suspect being brought in just in a matter of minutes…"

"Liar," he whispers, kissing under her jaw. "But thank you for that image. I'll keep it close to my heart."

"Or somewhere."

He chuckles again, the burr in his chest making her heart flip. She tightens her arms around him and presses her cheekbone hard to his, closing her eyes to memorize this.

Rick nuzzles into her nose, a brief kiss. "My coffee is getting cold. Doesn't count if it's not palatable-"

She lightly tugs his ear, but she steps away, grateful too for the way he teases. No crying in the precinct, no maudlin sentimentality where her team can see her.

If she starts now, she might never stop. And he knows that.

Rick takes her by the hand and draws her towards the table, and they sit down together, easy, comfortable, only faint remnants of the work they've done these last six months.

He lifts his coffee cup in salute and takes his first sip.

His eyes slip closed. He hums, the low noise in his chest the only real reminder of what lingers after being shot in their own home.

"Perfect," he sighs. His eyes open and the blue in the light of candle-flame is somehow so very blue. "You know I love you. I wouldn't be anywhere else for the world. And if every anniversary from here until fifty years from now is spent in this break room, Kate, I'd do it every time. With you."

How she loves this man.

—–


	197. twin girls coffee

#251

* * *

can a picture count as a three word prompt? cerejeiraz. tumblr post/ 145426302741 (if you want words: twin girls coffee)

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

Kate guides the girls ahead of her, a hand to the back of each brown head, nudging them over the threshold into the coffee shop.

Reese turns and pushes back her hair with both hands, tucking it behind her ears as she looks up at her mother. "Mommy, we want to share an iced coffee."

"Of course you do," she smiles, straightening the bag over her shoulder. "Girls, find a table and be on the lookout for Daddy. He said his flight was early."

Reese takes Lily's hand and they dart away, threading through the cafe tables for a spot near the front windows. It gives Kate a sharp pain in her chest, as it always does whenever the girls, in their innocence, trustingly fling themselves into the world's arms as if certain of an embrace.

She keeps them in sight as she steps into line, runs a hand through her hair to untangle it. The brisk wind means her girls are dressed in leggings and jackets, but entirely different styles for the twins. Eclectic Reese is in leggings and one of Alexis's old school skirts, plus a mustard colored shirt and a long necklace with her elephant pendant.

But Lily, her tomboy, wears a simple oversized red gingham shirt, blue jeans, and boots. She made Rick cut her hair straight across her forehead for bangs because it was getting in her eyes and driving her crazy - she wouldn't even wait for her mother to schedule an appointment with the salon.

The twins have found a formica table against the crowded turquoise wall, just before the windows. They have their dark heads together sitting across from each other, and she sees Reese duck and press her hand over her mouth to keep her giggles down.

Kate orders quickly, enough for the four of them, never putting her back to the girls. Five years old and they think the world is their special place, made just for them, all of that Castle optimism and blinding assurance. She knows better, but she would never disown them of the notion.

It takes moments to gather their order in the carrying tray, and by the time she begins making her way to the girls, Castle has walked into the coffee shop. He sees her first, hears the girls' squealing next, and his smile transforms his whole face. He gives her a _later_ sign and takes the tray off her hands, and together they approach their twins.

"Daddy, we got the best table," Reese says proudly. "Tell him, Lil."

Her shy one sinks back on her heels in her chair and her shoulders come up as her eyes cast towards the windows. "We can watch people from here. Inside and outside."

"Perfect spot, you're right," Castle says warmly, leaning over to give them both pecks on the cheek. His kiss for Kate is a little more subdued but a lot more purposeful, and she wishes he would just tell her already.

He distributes coffee, knowing without her having to say that the girls are sharing the large iced coffee, and Kate sits at his side, pulling out her phone. She checks but no alert yet, and Castle lays his hand on her knee with a tight smile.

Lily pokes her straw into the coffee cup, but Reese tears at her paper carefully and then puts the end of the straw in her mouth. Kate sees it coming, but Rick is turned to her, away from Reese, and he flinches wildly when the straw paper comes sailing into his temple.

The girls both giggle helplessly. Kate presses her lips together and rubs her husband's knee, meeting his eyes long enough to settle him before he says something he'll regret.

But, no, he's fine. He turns and tickle monsters Reese, the girl shrieking loud enough to have the whole coffee shop turning towards them. Lily blushes at the spectacle but she's laughing as well, her long hair swinging as she leans in.

"Help, help," Reese demands of her sister.

Lily grabs her arms to pull her across the table. The girls are about to topple everyone's coffee so Kate issues a sharp command, drawing cups out of harm's way until Rick stops tickling their daughter.

Reese is still giggling, pleased with herself and her daddy - and her sister's quick defense of her - and she rests her elbows on the table and sucks down her iced coffee. Her sly look is all too charming, and Lily's soft hesitance makes Kate's heart melt.

But she hasn't forgotten her husband.

With the girls distracted once more by their shared drink and their twin language, Kate turns to Rick. "DC?"

He shakes his head and rubs the back of his neck. "No," he says softly. "They wouldn't let me into the hearing."

She swallows hard.

"But a man approached me in the hallway, said he knew my father."

She stiffens, casting a swift look to the girls, but they're oblivious. "Your father is caught up in this?"

"I guess? He said we didn't have to worry."

Kate opens her mouth but nothing comes out. What can she say to that? They didn't have to worry? The CIA, the AG's office, the FBI - they've been given the runaround since before the girls were born, and now some shadowy figure says everything is fine because Jackson Hunt is involved?

Castle bobs his head like he can hear every single one of her indignant questions. And probably he can, or knows her well enough to have the same in his own head. "I don't know how we can trust it, but… we have to."

Kate takes a hit of her steaming espresso, relishes the burn and the way it scalds the roof of her mouth.

They were shot seven years ago in their own home due to all this, they have five year old twins and hopes for a third if that miracle finally happens, but they can't seem to bury the past.

Castle squeezes her knee. "We're okay. We're going to be fine. Whatever Hunt has to do with this… it's not about us. It doesn't touch us."

"The Congressional hearing though-"

"It was closed," he restates. "I wasn't allowed. We're done. Kate. We're done."

She stares at her husband, her eyes tracing the lines around his mouth, the deep worry that marks his forehead - all for her, because of her.

She takes his hand and squeezes. "We're done. This is the end of the road," she promises.

She looks to their girls, sipping iced coffee when it's barely above freezing outside, giggling with their heads together, Reese the rascal and Lily the heart.

She threads her fingers with Rick's, nods so he can see her determination. Even as she leans back in her chair.

It's the end. Her mother's case is done. This is over for them.

They have this life, in all its sweet innocence and silliness, and she won't endanger it.

—–


	198. partners in crime

#252

* * *

prompt: partners in crime

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

The Southampton wind was brutal in the dead of winter, and Kate Beckett wished she'd brought a scarf to cut the worst of it. "I can't believe you talked me into doing this," she muttered. "I'm a cop."

Bent over the doorknob of the beach house with lockpicking tools in hand, her husband grunted and glanced back at her. "You're not doing it, Beckett. I am. I'm breaking, you're entering as my back-up, remember."

She rubbed her hands together briskly, shifting on her feet in front of the opulent mansion of James Patterson, novelist and arch-nemesis. Apparently. "I remember," she answered. "I don't know _why_ , but I-"

"For some reason the state of New York still refuses to issue me a permit to carry conceal."

"For _some_ reason," she said dryly.

"So I need you to bring the weapon. You're my heavy." He cursed softly and peered at the door knob. "Can you hold the light?"

She took the flashlight, but really, the question here was _should_ she. The fact that Castle had James Patterson's alarm code, straight from the author's mouth so to speak, that he was on the permanent guest list and so they passed easily through the security gate outside - those things shouldn't have swayed her so easily.

"No one has _seen_ him since last year, Kate."

She rubbed two fingers at her brow. "Castle…"

"He's put out four novels in six months and yet no one has seen him _in person_ since-"

"You don't think that might be due to the four novels in six months? He's writing. Which you should be."

"It's all fodder," he answered, tapping his temple. "All of it's going up here. But seriously, Beckett, something's going on here. Either his ghost writers have risen up in rebellion and slain him. Or-"

"Castle," she huffed. "That is ridiculous. He does not have ghost writers-"

Castle growled. They had an ongoing argument about whether or not Patterson was churning out his own novels or farming them to peons. "You don't believe me? When was the last time you saw Alex Conrad, huh?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You, Rick Castle, drove him away. With your jealousy. He wasn't rounded up and captured by James Patterson to write Maximum Ride novels."

Castle gasped. "You _have_ read him."

"No. I've done my detective research. I need to have all the facts whenever we start one of your crazy conspiracy theories."

He scoffed, a noise in his throat, and turned back to the door. She glanced through the wide dark windows to the vast expanse of pale blue sunroom beyond. Patterson had good taste, she had to admit.

Her husband stumbled, the shim gouging out a piece of the beautiful wood door, and his shoulder knocking into the frame.

She sighed. "You know, Castle, when we said our vows, I didn't quite think you were going to take up a life of crime so quickly."

"No crime yet," he muttered. "Can't get this thing to work." He hunched over the door knob of the beach house, his back to the ocean, and tried again.

Kate scanned the dark horizon, the interplay of water and moonlight over the shore. The surf was mesmerizing at night, and the waves crashed and rolled, covering the sounds of their illegal entering.

Or well, not yet entering. She scowled at the top of Castle's head and reached in, yanked the tools out of his hands. "Hold the light," she snapped, crouching down before the lock.

"What are you doing?" he croaked.

She finagled the torsion wrench, nudged the shim, and got the pick to flip the tumblers. Five seconds. She stood swiftly and shoved the tools back into the lockpick kit. She slapped it against his chest. "Partners in crime, Castle."

She opened the door to Patterson's beach house and stepped inside.

—–


	199. Pregnant, sick, brother

#253

* * *

Pregnant, sick, brother-3 word prompt

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

The toilet flushes and Carter's eyes go wide. "Daddy, wow. Wow, Daddy."

"I know, race car, look at that. You flushed it."

"M&M?" Carter asks, an impish look on his face as he's momentarily distracted from the mechanics of the toilet. "I took number one, Daddy."

Castle chuckles, certain Kate will not appreciate the numerous phrases he's taught their son. But he can't help using another. "Good job doing your business. And yes, you get an M&M for reward. But first wash our hands."

Carter peers back into the toilet to watch the last of the water fill the bowl. "All goes down, Daddy."

"That's right. Flushed to the sewer."

"Where after?"

Castle pauses. His almost three year old is asking where? "Well, kiddo, the sewer system is under the streets, and it flows to waste treatment plants all through the city where it gets cleaned and… put back into the pipes to come here again."

Carter's brow furrows, much like his mother's when she's concentrating, and then the boy clambers up the stool to thrust on the faucet. "Water. Pee water."

"Oh, no," he says hurriedly, reaching in to help the soap. "No. Not pee water. It gets cleaned. And - actually, that was a simplistic answer, Car, sorry. The water goes out to the river, the ocean, and then we get our water in the pipes from…"

Castle glances to his son's screwed up face and shakes his head.

"Never mind. It gets flushed to the ocean. This is from the watershed upstate, Carter, from the reservoirs. The mountains and lakes. How's that?"

"How it goes, Daddy?"

"Gravity," he answers quickly. "Now, wash up, speed racer. Mommy is waiting on us."

Carter rubs his hands under the water, suds billowing as he hums a little song from his preschool class. He has to be a potty-trained three year old for next year's class, and with the baby on the way, they're crunched for time when it comes to housebreaking this one.

"All done!"

"Good boy." Rick Castle sets the toddler on his feet and tugs down his _I'm the Big Brother_ t-shirt where it rides up over his pot belly. He fishes an orange M &M from the jar on the shelf and hands it to the boy. "Good job. You ready, Car? Let's go find your mommy."

Carter shouts with excitement and goes running from the bathroom, racing ahead, who knows where the M&M has gone. Castle follows at a more sedate pace, knowing the deluxe baby gate is closed at the top of the stairs. Sure enough, Carter is waiting impatiently at the gate, working his fingers into the lock as he tries to get it open.

"Ha," Castle exalts. "Foiled. This is a new one, race car. Mommy calls it Supergate Extra Tall. No way you can climb that." And to keep it that way, Castle picks up his son and faces him away while he works the complicated lever and closure device that allows him through.

At almost three, the kid shouldn't be quite so reckless around the stairs. But he has the tendency to run without looking, and the dog likes to race ahead of them, so Kate hasn't felt confident about leaving the stairs unattended. This is the eighth gate they've bought.

"Kate?" he calls, setting Carter down on the stairs and holding one little hand. "Kate, we're coming down. You ready to go?" They have a dinner planned with their family to tell them the news, Carter serving as their little announcement. "Kate?"

The dog comes first, trotting through the hall and into their view at the living room. Chaplin gives a woofing bark and turns back for the master bedroom, leaving them there.

Carter, being careful like a good boy on the stairs, stops looking at his feet to stare down to the first floor. "'Ate?" he calls, lifting his voice in a thin, high treble. "'A-ate!"

Castle chuckles, trying not to let the boy see his amusement. He simply calls for his wife again. "Kate. Carter is looking for you."

"In here."

At the sound of her voice, Castle is tempted to stride down the stairs and head straight for her - she doesn't seem quite right - but he's forced to wait out their son as he attempts the stairs one step at a time. His patience is wearing thin and he'd like nothing more than to scoop up the boy and get on with it, but after a few scary falls, Carter has been too timid. He needs some success with stair climbing if he's going to get enough practice to do it safely.

It seems like everything they do these days is geared towards giving Carter enough independence for when the baby comes.

When they're finally at ground level, Castle praises his son for his good job and then picks him up and steps over the bottom gate. "Hey, babe, you ready?" he says, following the path that Chaplin took towards the master. "Kate, honey, we really need to-"

"Not sure I can," she rasps, on her knees on the rug, her cheek against the mattress.

"No?" He walks carefully towards her. "Are you okay?"

"No, not okay," she whispers. Her eyelids look heavy, like she can't open her eyes.

"Kate?" he asks, his chest torquing in that remembrance of pain.

"Sorry, I'm okay, I'm perfect, glowing. Glowing right into the toilet, five times so far."

"Flush!" Carter yells, throwing up his hands. "Flush, Mommy!"

Kate cracks open an eye and gives a dry chuckle. "Mm, flush is right. Did you go potty, Car?" She pushes off from the side of the mattress and draws in a knee as if to stand.

"All myself," Carter says proudly.

Castle sets the boy on his feet and reaches for Kate, trying to help. "Why were you on the floor?"

"Trying to crawl into bed, thought maybe I wouldn't make it," she admits, wincing. "My mouth tastes… ugh."

"We can cancel. It doesn't have to be tonight."

"I want to," she sighs. "Let me brush my teeth. Carter, good job going potty. Did Daddy give you-"

"M&M!" He opens his mouth and sure enough, the orange M&M is a melted smear across his tongue. She laughs and cups his cheek, moves past him for the bathroom sink.

"You sure? We can do this another night."

"Not sure it would help," she winces.

"Help, Mommy."

"Yeah, your little brother is no help at all, is he? Or sister." She wrinkles her nose at Carter as she smears toothpaste across her brush. "Got a little baby like Carter, did you know that, Car?"

"Car?" he says, tilting his head and studying her.

Kate pats her stomach. "That's right. A baby, Car."

"Baby Car!"

The thought pops into his head before he can smother it, and the laugh chokes in his throat. Kate glances at him, a lift of her eyebrow in invitation.

"No, I shouldn't-"

"Tell me. What." Flat, her eyes glaring at him.

"It's a - he said it first really - a baby car?"

She rolls her eyes. "That's lame-"

"A mini Cooper," he finishes, bursting into laughter now. He can't help it, the sudden relief of morning sickness being the reason he found her collapsed rather than- "Get it? A baby car-" He bends down and makes Carter give him a high-five. "Good job, race car. You named the baby - Mini Cooper."

"Oh my God," Kate mutters. "Thirty more weeks of this."

—–


	200. Let's be still

#254

* * *

Let's be still

— AWESOMEBAZAN27

* * *

Rick Castle glances to the horizon, but his feet shift on the deck to move for the sliding door, Kate at his back.

But "No," she whispers, restraining him with only an arm around his shoulders.

He lifts his chest in a deeper breath, token resistance. She flattens her palm and encompasses his pec in a weird, strangely intimate hold. He's arrested by the strange position, her behind him and pressed to his spine, the arm slung at his upper shoulders, her fingers caressing him through the material of his t-shirt.

"No?"

"Take a moment to be still," she whispers, and nudges him towards the dark line of the beach.

They're supposed to be showering and changing into dressier clothes; she has a sheath thing and those strappy heels that make his guts clench, and he has nice grey slacks, a purple tie, far more appropriate for the soiree two houses down.

He's wearing a ratty Marvel shirt, swim trunks, and those leather flip flops she found for him in Bora Bora. He smells like sun sweat and sea salt, and the day has been jammed and crowded with a fish fry, Alexis's pool party, a sunset sail, the invitation from Chief Brady, the clubhouse wine and cheese reception, and the fireworks on the beach that are still licking and screaming in the twilight.

"Rick," she chides. "Be still, stay."

He realizes he's been leaning back towards the sliding glass door, unconsciously hurrying them. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his board shorts, lowers his shoulders.

She lays a light kiss against his neck and he can feel the brush of her hair, wild and wavy in the humidity. He lays his hand over hers at his chest, rubs his thumb at her knuckles.

He takes a breath of the brine in the air, still heavy with the day's heat, the night's slow release into the darkness. A high pitched whistle is the only warning before another girandola firework explodes in the sky, whizzing and spinning. Rosettes and willows bloom intermittently, white and blue, and then the large display chrysanthemum, which only seems to grow and grow even as it fades, the red threading through the darkness.

Kate lays her cheek to the top of his shoulder, sighs softly. The ocean is a steady susurration, joining the rhythm of their breathing and the bleed of burning flame in the sky. Under his feet is the slow roll of the world in space, the casual tilting towards the void.

But Kate holds him back, Kate keeps him.

—–


	201. secret library tryst

#256

* * *

Secret library tryst

— ANONYMOUS

* * *

"Why don't you…" she trailed off, running a finger down his chest to his belt. "Mm, tell me what you want?"

With the bookshelves pressed against his back, Kate Beckett in all her glorious freedom at his front, and the hush of pages turning, laptop keys typing, and that general hum of a library running, Rick Castle would be dead if he weren't aroused.

He wasn't dead.

She was most assuredly into this. Her eyes always had that light in them when she got it into her head she was going to _make_ him, and that light was a green flame now.

A gentle cough at the end of the row had her head turning towards the sound, and she glared daggers at the man who had apparently been softly disapproving. The patron disappeared with nothing more than a ghost of feet on the floor and then those dark eyes of hers were back on him.

"What I want," he said slowly, trying to gather some vestige of his self-control under that predatory look. He felt transfixed. "I want to touch you."

She grinned. Triumph was planted in her body like a flag, banner taut and strong, snapping. She leaned in and kissed him, and he closed his eyes to better feel her mouth on him, her tongue, the taste of her furious-

A sharp sting made him jerk, and suddenly he was falling, falling sideways, a painful collapse to the floor. His eyes were open, his elbow was crushed under him, and his knee-

"Castle? What was that?"

Rick groaned, lifting his head from the floor. He could see his girlfriend coming through the living room from the kitchen, just reaching the office doorway.

"Rick," she gasped, rushing forward. "How'd you get knocked over?" She reached his side just as he was pushing himself up to sitting, and he knocked away the wheelchair even as she moved to right it. "It's okay, I got this. Be careful." She put her shoulder under his armpit. "Careful. What happened, babe?"

He got his good leg under him, shoving off the floor with her help, a tight grip on the edge of the desk to haul himself upright. "I fell asleep and - and fell over."

Her hand pressed against his chest, a grip of his cotton t-shirt. "Rick… are you okay?"

He glanced over, propping a hip at his desk for balance, and he saw her mouth twitching. He sighed, scraped a hand down his face. "Haha, very funny."

"Oh, no. No. It's just that I'm - um - you have an interesting problem there, Rick. Did it knock you over by the sheer magnitude of its own power?"

He scowled. But the amusement burned in his chest and came tearing up his throat. He barked a hard spool of laughter and allowed her to help him down to the wheelchair, sitting carefully.

"Well, it must have," he sighed, shifting his hips. "Too bad really. You were about to have your way with me in the library."

She adjusted his leg onto the raised support, circled her fingers at his ankle. "Mm, where exactly? Because those reading rooms are crowded."

"No, not the main, with all the tourists," he huffed. "The one across with the stacks. The books."

Kate leaned in over him in the wheelchair, bracing herself on the arms. Her hair was in a tight knot at her nape, just as it had been in his dream. She was studying him carefully, and then her eyes dropped, purposefully, to his lap. "You have… books here, Rick Castle."

His body instantly responded, all that effort of humiliation and frustration undone with just those short little words. "I do. I have reams of books."

"A library of books, wouldn't you say?"

"I would," he said, nodding his head eagerly. "Definitely. In fact, you've borrowed more than a few."

She touched his cheek and leaned in, softly kissed his five o'clock shadow. "I'd like to borrow _one_ particular… tome. If your lending library is open?"

He wanted to keep it going, he really did. But he found himself grinning too wide to play the game. Instead he reached out and caught her hips, yanked to bring her down to him.

She was too graceful for that of course. But she did step over his extended leg and sit delicately in his lap, squirming just enough to make him groan. His head bowed to her collarbone and he breathed hard, wrapped his arms around her waist.

She chuckled, palming the side of his face. "Did you want to see the shelves right here, Rick, or can we make it easier on ourselves and - hm - sign in to a private study room?"

"A private study room, yes. Please. Anything."

She leaned in and kissed him again, very lightly, as if she didn't want to tease him too much.

"You're a good woman," he sighed. "Too good for me."

"Librarian, Rick. I'm your personal librarian. And it's time to check out."

—–


	202. never giving up

#258

* * *

 _Three word prompt: never giving up_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

Lately she's taken to wearing her hair up. Piled loosely or a tight knot, either way, doesn't seem to matter. Whatever is expedient, he thinks, whatever she has on hand to tie it back, up, off her shoulders.

He likes it. Messy at times, exacting at others. She uses rubber bands from the morning newspaper or twist ties off the bread. She unravels the tapestry thread from the couch and uses that, as if she just needs her hair held back, out of her way while she confesses. She can't seem to keep a regular tie on her wrist, and he doesn't know why she should really. Let the whole loft be hers to dismantle if that's what it takes.

Because she talks to him now.

She tells him stories without artifice or even really art. She explains why in halting speech, but she does explain. She says, _I didn't understand how else to love_ or _you know what my life has been like._ She says, _if I die don't bury me_ or _don't think I didn't warn you_. Her mouth offers him up her words and her smiles and her bracing grimaces as a tremor rolls through her body, but her hair has to be up.

Her hair needs to be up.

She's changed since the shooting. She's altered in some indefinable way that nevertheless has him up at night trying to capture it with words of his own. He doesn't confess on a couch or lying in bed in the dark or standing at the kitchen counter pressing juice. He confesses to the page, across the laptop screen, one dark letter following another, typographical therapy.

She's changed; he's not sure he has in the same manner. He's jumpy and can't sleep without a light on somewhere; he has to check the alarm obsessively and occasionally he needs to call and hear her voice when he's out. Those aren't alterations but dropped stitches, frayed places where his seams are beginning to come undone.

She has changed wholecloth.

It's not her hair being a nuisance, not the constant way she talks about her trauma as if she believes in the power of her own voice to heal wounds.

It's everything else.

And he can't put it into words.

All he can do is love her in spite of, despite, because she's changed.

He won't stop loving her.

But he does, from time to time, turn to her in the middle of brilliant sunlight and make sure she casts a shadow.

He does, every now and again, ask his daughter if she can see his wife standing there.

He has, once in a while, laid his ear to her chest and listened to her heart beating and counted the footfalls her pulse makes in her body.

Just to be sure.

—–


	203. Katie, pink, won

#259

* * *

 _Katie, pink, won_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

She licks her lips and readies her stance. Feet hip-width apart, arms pulled into her chest, the heavy bean-bag in her right hand. She eyes her target, three stacked milk bottles on a gaudily-painted wooden pedestal, and she makes her calculations.

She ignores the organ music pumping horrifically across the wide field of dead grass and pitched tents. In the neon-lighted darkness, screams and laughter, plus the groan and screech of gears, carry from the Cliffhanger and the Gravitron just behind her. But she concentrates. Focuses.

This is her last ball.

She winds up, pitches hard. The bean bag hits wide, thumping against the canvas backdrop, its shifting stuffing causing her aim to be spoiled as it spins out. The barker snickers behind his fistful of dollar bills, thumbs on his mic. "Good try, good try, good try. Who will step up and match the little girl's bet? Go head to head. Double or nothing, double or nothing, folks."

She's furious at being called little girl. Her feet are planted, rooted to the muddy earth, but she slams another three dollars down on the counter. The carnival barker sidles her direction and gives her three more bean bags to try her luck.

But it's not luck, is it? It's skill. And if she can hit the pyramid of milk bottles just right, she can win.

The barker calls out for another player to go up against her, head to head, which would boost the winner up a tier to the grand prize. Those are bigger, flashier, and hanging from hooks at the top of the stand.

She just wants to pitch. Not hang around waiting for someone to go up against her.

"I'll have a go."

Katie turns her head and sees an older boy stepping up to the counter, three crumpled one-dollar bills that he hands over. The barker scowls at him derisively, but he's forced to unfold each dollar and flatten it against the edge of the counter before he can add it to his fistful.

The guy turns to look at her and sees her watching, smirks. Her cheeks flame, but he gestures with a head nod to the way he's made the barker have to work for his money, chuckling under his breath, eyebrows wriggling.

Katie stiffens. He's practically in _college_. Is he making fun of her?

She turns away, stares at the milk bottles set up, taunting her.

She squeezes the first bean bag and hefts it, tosses it in the air once or twice to get the weight of it, the feel of her throw.

"Hey," the older kid says, stepping up right beside her. "I know a trick for these things."

"I already know," she snaps. "I know how to do this."

He squints an eye at her. "Okay, kid. Have at it."

She grits her teeth and puts her back to him, eyes the milk bottle pyramid. She holds the bean bag against her chest and takes a breath, but she can feel the boy's eyes on her.

It's unnerving. _He_ is unnerving.

She winds up and throws, but the bean bag goes a little high and clips the top bottle.

The barker smirks at her and comes over. "Okay, look little girl, I can let you have at the last two, and if you knock 'em down with your remaining shots, you can win one of the toy frogs."

Katie slides her eyes to the side where the ugly plastic frogs are lined up on a shelf. "No," she says. "Reset the bottles."

The boy chuckles as the barker holds up both hands in mock surrender. She glares at the boy and then the barker, but the carnival worker has already turned to reset the bottles.

The boy leans in. "Look, if you just-"

"Will you just throw yours already?" she snaps back, glaring at him. "It's your go."

She shouldn't have. He merely shrugs but he does just as she asks and knocks down the milk bottles on his first try. She's _furious_ but she says absolutely nothing, won't even look at him as he collects his grand prize. A huge pink dragon with a massive red tongue and felt triangle teeth.

He tucks it under his arm and still it's nearly too big to fit. She won't look at him, this arrogant senior high boy who just stole the grand prize right out from under her. The carnival barker approaches. "Alright, girlie, look. You got two more bean bags, and I was the one who put you head-to-head, so-" He shrugs and gestures to the plastic frog.

"No. If I get all three," she says quickly, "I want the prize. Just like it says. Knock all three, get the grand prize."

"I just gave _him_ the grand prize."

"You have like fifty hanging up there," she growls.

"Come on, kid," he mutters, the mic off and his voice growling at her. "Don't be such a brat. I said head-to-head and he stepped up and you put your money down."

"No," she snarls. "I put my money down and _then_ he stepped up. So I-"

"Point of fact, you little brat, is that you put your money down after the rules were stipulated. Do you know what that word means, little girl? It's legal talk for-"

"My mother _and_ my father are both lawyers," she hisses back, leaning in. "How's that for legal talk?"

His face goes florid, bright red patches mottled on acne-scarred cheeks. He makes a rude gesture and swipes his hand towards the bottles. "Then pitch. Not like you'll knock them over."

And so she does. She was watching when the high school boy threw his first bean bag, and she knows now what to do. She aims for the bottom two, right between them as the base, and she throws as hard as she can.

The bottles rock hard and then topple, spilling to the crushed grass below. Pride bursts like fireworks in her chest, and she glares at the barker who has his hands on his hips.

He balks. She stares him down, daring him to make something of it. But he finally sighs hard and moves for the hook. "What ya want."

Her jaw works to keep from smiling, and she lifts her eyes to the top row of prizes hanging over her head. She takes a deep breath and points. "The elephant. The purple one."

When he unhooks it from the hanging rack overhead and brings it down, it's a lot bigger than she expected. And it smells like cotton candy and popcorn. She wraps her arms around it and finally grins.

The barker curses her under his breath and she turns away from him, more than content to head home now.

But she stops short only a few yards from the booth. The boy is standing there, has been apparently, to watch her. He has the dragon at his feet in an empty patch of dead grass and he grins, slowly starts to clap.

She flushes hotly but he shakes his head. "No, I'm serious. Congrats. I picked out the dragon for you because you're pretty fierce, kid - but you won your own prize."

She glances to the neon-colored dragon, then drags her eyes up to the high school kid. "Thanks, but I don't like pink."

—–


	204. Life - Castle - Death

#260 (Season 7)

* * *

 _Three words prompt: Life - Castle - Death. ;)_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

Heaviness lies over her, more than just his arm around her waist in bed tonight.

Heaviness she can't throw off.

She silences her alarm before it can buzz from her phone, and she slides out from under the sheets, and out from under his arm, without disturbing him. She stands motionless beside the bed with her hands hanging at her sides, not quite sure where to go from here.

It wells up like habit. Bathroom. Shower. And then get dressed for the day, her job at the precinct. Just like every weekday (and some weekends) for the last eight weeks, one foot in front of the other. One day at a time.

She cries in the shower.

When the loneliness finally breaks her, she turns the water as hot as she can stand it, and she weeps, her face oriented to the spray to wash the tears down the drain. To hide the evidence, though she can barely breathe with it, choking on her own desperate, aching grief.

He sleeps in their bed again. He's alive and right there across the pillow. And yet so far away.

Without knowing why, with all the answers she doesn't have, his being alive hasn't restored that trust. She loves him, she has never stopped loving him, but he reaches for her and she flinches. He speaks and she can't quite believe his words.

There's a curtain between them. An impenetrable veil of the unknown, the unanswered questions. Why he left her at the altar, why he left, why he _bolted,_ why he would have ever thought-

She still sees him on that surveillance video. No gun on him. No threat echoed on his face, no harrowed hardness to his eyes. Free.

But she can't know that. She doesn't know that. He was shot, he had dengue fever; he resisted at some point, he was in some kind of trouble, that much is clear.

Castle would never.

But he did.

She scrubs both hands down her face and flips off the water. Breathes. Grief is unacceptable. Loneliness is pathetic. He's here; he's back. He's-

But it's not the same, nothing is the same. She can't break through, can't reclaim what they used to have. Oh, God. Oh, _God_ , help.

No. Enough.

If she gives way, she'll fall apart. She can't do that. She has to move forward; _they_ do. There's a reason they say time heals all wounds. It will this.

She yanks a towel from the rack and swipes it down her body, folds it across her breasts, keeping herself rigid. Not thinking. Just like before. Every day for eight weeks. One step at a time.

She tugs open the bathroom door and runs right into Castle.

"Rick," she gasps, stumbling.

He catches her. "God, Kate." A hard grip of her shoulders, and then he's crushing her against his chest. "Don't cry in there without me."

That breaks her.

She sobs. The tears spill hot down her cheeks to soak his shirt, fresh and shameful. She clings to him in noisy grief, the ache of loneliness, afraid that this curtain between them has already become a shroud.

Killed what she loves so much. As everything else she's loved.

"Stop, stop," he growls. He squeezes her harder. "This is breaking my heart."

She can't stop; she can't. She's been going at this for eight weeks, life by rote, mechanical and dull, and now it's not working. Nothing is working.

"I'd never have done this to you for no reason," he chokes out. "You know that, you know _me_. Say you know me."

"I - I know-" She grips fistfuls of his shirt, fails to mean it. "I don't know, I don't know what happened to you and it's killing me-"

"I don't know _either_ ," he groans. "I don't know, Kate, but it had to be a good reason. I've been wracking my brain trying to come up - I'm a writer, I have a pretty damn good imagination, but the _only_ story that makes sense, the only thing that could possibly incite me to leave you on our wedding day is if-"

She sucks in a breath, stills the noise in her head.

"-if everything I loved was in danger. If there was an immediate threat of death hanging over us, and there was no other way."

Ashes in her mouth as she says, woodenly, "But I'm a cop. And we've - faced it before…" She loosens her fists, loosed herself somehow, inside. Adrift.

"But it's not just you," he whispers. "You're not the only one in my family, Kate."

Her lips go numb; she steps back, clutches at the towel with one hand, swipes her cheeks with the other. "Right. I - know."

"Alexis," he says roughly. "My mother." He reaches for her and she flinches, but he takes her by the wrist, tugs her fingers away from her cheeks. "Your father. All the people who don't work and live with a constant police presence at their sides. All the ones we love whom we can't protect twenty-four seven, when they're far from us."

She nods, her fingers curling in but her eyes cutting away. One foot in front of the other. One day at a time-

"I left you," he says flatly. "And I would say I'm sorry, but I'm not. Because it kept you alive. It kept _them_ alive. We're all here now. And I'm not sorry for that. But I can't - can't stand to hear you crying alone, Kate. Back to how it always was, shuttered off from me. Please. Don't let this be what kills us."

She shakes her head, chewing hard on the inside of her cheek. But tears come anyway, brimming at her eyes and spilling over. Silent. Terrible.

Castle takes her back. Both arms wrapped around her, a little more gently this time, no less fierce. Her chin comes to the top of his shoulder and she cants her face into his neck, and she can't stop it.

"That's better," he husks. He has tears in his voice too, and his hand cradles the back of her head, fingers pushing through her wet hair. "Isn't that better?"

She struggles to breathe through it, closes her eyes. But slowly she winds her arms around him. Ragged inhalations she can't quite master. The heat of his body warding off the chill, his palm at her nape, his mouth touching her ear and asking for promises again.

"Better," she finally sighs against his neck. "This is better."

—–


	205. everything eventually ends

#261

* * *

 _everything eventually ends_

 _— OHSWEETDARLING_

* * *

"Hey," he whispers, smiling at her even though it feels weak. He shifts in the wheelchair and waits for her to look at him.

Her eyes open slowly, and something like a sigh escapes her. Slowly.

And then she smiles back.

Equally faint, but he'll take it.

The PRN pushes him up to her bedside and sets the brakes, taps the side of Kate's raised railing. "This is the call button. Press this when you want me to roll you back, Mr Castle."

"Thanks," he gets out, waiting until the woman leaves them to speak again. When he looks back to Kate, he can see his wife struggling to keep her eyes open. "Hey, it's okay. You should sleep."

"Might have to." She smiles again, but it quickly drops. She's as still as death under the thin white bedsheet and it makes his chest tight.

Well, that could be the gunshot wound that still pulls and tugs. But he's upright, which is a small miracle, and he's pretty sure he only has thirty minutes max before the pain sends him down again.

"Rick," she breathes.

"I'm here."

"Gonna quit."

"We tried," he says softly, smiling at her even though she can't see it with her eyes closed. "Tried to quit, doesn't seem to want to let us go, huh?"

Her lashes finally spread, her eyes deep with pain. A heaviness that seems impossible to console. "Quit my job," she husks. "Over."

"Kate," he croaks.

She closes her eyes.

He realizes he's trying to lean forward only a second before the pain lances through his chest and he has to gasp and freeze, keep himself stiff in the chair. She doesn't move, doesn't twitch, doesn't open her eyes.

"Kate?"

Her lips part. Another long sigh. But nothing else, and her heart rate is a slow steady beep on the monitor.

She's drifted away again.

Castle carefully leans back in the wheelchair, but he can't believe it's really over. It's not over; it's never over.

She's quit her job before. It's just the pain talking, the trauma and almost-tragedy.

It's not over.

—–


	206. castle beckett's PT

#263

* * *

 _3 words prompt: castle beckett's PT ((i cheated a little whoops :D))_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

They managed to schedule physical therapy appointments on the same days, at the same times, and at first Castle thought himself so clever for that. But it's one of Dante's levels of hell he didn't anticipate, hearing her gut herself out to be stronger, having her witness his tears when the pain is too much, seeing her struggle to sit up straight after only twenty minutes, having his failures be front and center as she works.

The physical therapist's office is one thing, but the work room where all the patients must train and rebuild muscles and skills is simply a big open space. Like a gym. And since they go to the same office at the same time, they watch each other be broken down week after week.

And then they lie there, sometimes side by side on matching therapy tables, sometimes he's on a weight bench and she's panting from the floor, both of them too exhausted and aching to move.

Sometimes Alexis pries Kate up, a shoulder in her armpit, a harsh _no you're not too much just let me help you_. Once Kate is standing, and the PTAs have crowded Rick's vision with disdainful _you must let us get you upright now; look, your wife is up_ then of course he can't stay sacked out like a corpse.

Sometimes neither of them have anyone here to prod or poke or motivate, and the physical therapy assistants don't need the space for their next patients, and he can bump and stutter his hand across the carpeted platform and hook her pinky with his own and just breathe.

This is one of those days.

The car service is waiting outside, but it will mean actually getting there before they can get home and crawl in bed and never come out again.

"We suck," Kate pants. He can tell she's trying to regulate her breathing, get it under control, but it's impossible after a two-hour session.

"Wish - wish they did the ultrasound at the end, not the beginning."

She makes an assenting noise and her finger in his seems to twitch.

He opens his eyes because a slight dizziness is making him seasick, and he stares at the ceiling panels overhead.

Kate's stomach growls and she moans.

He tries not laugh. Laughing hurts badly after physical therapy. He laughs anyway and hisses through the intense throb and muscle spasms that begin in his chest.

"Breathe," she chokes out.

He's trying; he really is. "Being shot sucks," he gasps finally.

"Def-definitely."

"You're - twice for you."

"Don't remind me."

"Too late."

She twitches her finger in response and he takes that as a sign she would've smacked him for that otherwise. He deserves it. He knows better than to purposefully try to make _her_ laugh. If he thinks laughing hurts him, it's impossible for her.

Her stomach growls again, a rolling sound that seems to echo.

It's not funny any more. It's just sad. Because even if she is starving, neither of them will eat; they don't have the energy. The best they'll be able to do is eventually be forced upright by annoyed PTAs and then make their way to the car in an ache of stiffening muscles.

They'll fall asleep in the car only to be woken by his mother who will have been called down by the driver to collect them. The doorman will have to help get Rick out of the backseat while Kate will look mutely on, despair growing in her eyes, and self-recrimination, for how she's not the one helping him.

He'll tell her it doesn't matter, he'll remind her that this isn't her fault, he'll want to hug her but he'll not be able to lift his arms. The doorman and the driver will most likely both come up the elevator with them to keep Kate from going down, while Martha steadies him against the side of the car.

They're a mess, they're a wreck, and he should never have schedule their appointments together.

As soon as he can, he's going to have to rearrange this schedule.

Kate's finger suddenly squeezes his. "I'm so glad you're here," she whispers. "I'd - never be able to do this all over again - without you."

Never mind. He's not rearranging a damn thing.

—–


	207. Family Now Complete

#265

* * *

 _Prompt: Family Now Complete_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

"That's it," she whispers, nose to nose with the little thing. "We're done."

Rick chuckles, his hand at her back where she's bent over in the bed. "We're done, huh? Just like that?"

Kate can't take her eyes of the baby. Perfect sweet face. Lashes dark on pink cheeks. The strain of birth, the exhaustion of a hard night's work. "Just like that?" she whispers. "As if it didn't take nineteen hours of labor."

"Oh no, not a criticism," he answers. A kiss to her temple, another at her forehead. "Are you going to share?"

"No." She smiles to see that little nose scrunch, lips purse, a perfect bow. "Not sharing. All mine."

"Ka-ate," he sings softly. "Everyone will be here soon. Can I at least-"

"No." She kisses the baby, not her husband. That tiny mouth, cracking open with a yawn. "Oh my God, look how precious."

"I wish I was recording this. You sound inane with the baby talk. Who knew."

"My baby," she answers. Feels his lips bump her cheek. He's bending in close, he's practically in the bed with her, and she finally lifts her head and unbends from the baby.

Her heart flips at how he looks at her. How he's looking at her right now, despite how amused his words sounded, how relaxed and confident.

"Our baby," she amends, though it's not that. She knows it's not that; he's stunned by love too. For all his _been there done that_ routine throughout this pregnancy, he feels just as bewildered and disoriented and in love as she does. "What are we going to do with a fourth?"

He laughs and shifts her over, settling his hips against hers and sliding his arms under and between her and the baby. "We'll figure it out." Their newest little boy. He cradles his son, and she leans against his arm to watch.

Bright morning sunlight plays over the baby's face. Catches his hair and gilds his eyelids. She reaches across and lightly runs a finger down his exposed arm. "He doesn't look a thing like the boys."

"Lily was exactly this as a newborn, remember?" His voice has dropped to keep from disturbing the little guy, but it sends a shiver through her, makes her press her cheek harder into his shoulder. He glances at her, then back to the baby. "He'll have your features, like she does. Thin nose, that mouth."

She smiles. Her thumb unfolds the baby's tiny fist. The boy squirms and his face twists in another yawn.

He bends over the boy and touches his lips to the wrinkled forehead. "Are you our last baby?" he whispers. "Huh? Mommy might be right, but we certainly said that about the twins. What do you think, little thing?"

"Now who's the baby-talk fool?" she whispers.

He chuckles and lifts his head to her, grins widely. Old man. Beautiful man. He'll never be old, not his heart, while she feels every minute of every day of every year. But at least she has him to keep her young.

"Thank you for my son," he says then. "For one last baby."

She smiles back and cranes her neck to kiss him, a touch of lips and breath. "Thanks for indulging me when I drunkenly jumped your bones and said _won't one more be so perfect_?"

He laughs so hard he startles the baby awake, but it's worth it. He cups her face for a better kiss than the one she tried to get away with, finds herself breathless as he hums his joy at her ear and the baby fusses in his arms.

"Indulging you. Is that what the cool kids are calling it these days?"

—–


	208. I'm a kitten

**#266**

* * *

 _3 words prompt: "I'm a kitten"_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

She wakes jostled, eyes flaring open in the spill of morning light.

Mouth tastes like a sock.

"Mommy, meow."

Kate shifts and lifts an arm as a little warm body pushes in. For a moment, her boy is a pleasant weight at her ribs, a foot nudging her hip. She drapes her arm across his back, rubs slowly.

Too good to last, of course. Too much a Castle to leave her alone in the morning, and fidgety as his father.

She closes her eyes, but it's difficult to ignore the incessant squirming.

"Hey, buddy," she sighs, turning into him. "It's early."

"Meee-ow."

She sighs. Closes her eyes.

"Mommy, I'm a kitten."

"Yup. Got that." She nuzzles down into her kitten, arms tightening. "But I'm trying to sleep, little kitten."

"Mew."

"Hm." She doesn't acknowledge, but the boy isn't deterred, mewling and meowing, stretching and kneading the bedsheets. Licking her arm.

Jeez. She agrees with Castle that it's good to encourage his creativity, but she wishes he wouldn't create himself as a cat. Or a cat after she's had her coffee.

Or not at five in the morning.

"Kitty, where's your daddy?"

"Kitties don't have daddies."

"Mm, then they don't have mommies either," she hums, turning away to find a cooler, unkneaded, unkittened part of the bed.

Blessed relief.

Silence and stillness behind her. She begins to drift once more, sliding back into that lovely oblivion. Drifting, floating, almost asleep. She refuses to wonder why Rick isn't in bed at five, probably the other one and this twin has been sent into bed with her to keep him out of trouble.

She's not thinking about trouble; she's not.

Okay, she is.

And this one is too quiet.

Kate sighs and turns over, slides her arm around the boy. Cuddles him. He doesn't kitten. He's quiet, but he's the quiet one. "What did Jake do?"

"Spilled all the orange juice everywhere and burned things."

"Mm." She sighs and strokes a thumb across Reece's cheek. "Himself?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe." But she doesn't move; Reece seems to need her. "Oh, is this because I said kittens don't need mommies? I was wrong. Of course they do. Definitely need mommies. Mommies who've had coffee."

"Meow." His nose nudges up into her hand. "Soon. Daddy said soon."

She smiles and kisses him, smooths his hair down, strokes behind his ears, realizes she's petting him.

Well, alright, she is. "Cuddle with me, kitten." Reece nudges into her immediately, clinging, claws if he had them. She pats his back and scratches lightly, pets him again. "Can we cuddle and take… a cat nap?"

Reece giggles, presses his face into her chest. "Mm-kay. Catnap, Mommy."

—–


	209. You slapped me

#267

* * *

 _Prompt: You slapped me!_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

"You slapped me!"

"It was an accident," he hissed, clapping his hand over her mouth. He darted looks around the precinct's bullpen, jerked his hand down when he realized that probably looked a lot worse. "Oh no, Captain Gates is looking at us."

"You slapped me," Kate hissed. She pulled down the collar of her turtleneck. "And you gave me like five hickeys, Rick Castle."

"Shhh," he hushed, reaching in to tug it back up, back up there, Beckett, oh my God. "Don't you know how to be inconspicuous?"

"Don't _you_?"

Oh my God, now Espo and Ryan were approaching them and she was still going on about it. "Shh, hush, shhh-"

"What're you doing there, Castle."

He jerked to attention at the crisp snap of Esposito's voice, jerked his hands away from Beckett's clothing. He cleared his throat and slid his eyes past Ryan, frantically searching for something that would explain both his obsession with her neck and also his reason for shutting her up.

He hadn't slapped her that hard. She had _told_ him to. _Spank me-_

Beckett glared. Esposito glared. Beckett hid her cracking smile behind her coffee cup so that Esposito couldn't see.

Ryan did though, and he narrowed his eyes, opened his mouth as if he was going to say something.

"I was just - Beckett has a hickey," Castle blurted out. Her cheeks flamed bright red and she dropped the coffee, as well as her jaw. "She has like _five_ hickeys, and she won't tell me why."

Ryan grinned like the annoying little brother he was at heart and both detectives pivoted to grill Beckett. "Oh, really? Do tell, Beckett. You have-"

"Rick Castle," she hissed, giving him a dark look.

"She does, you do. You can't hide that for long," he said, trying to inject a little _I'm sorry but it had to be done_ in there. "You can't hide that."

"I could _have_ if it weren't for _you_."

Well, that had been pointed. But they didn't seem to catch on, instead her boys were blockading her from her desk, letting Castle slip out of the noose and head for his chair.

Whew. He was gonna owe her his own time in handcuffs for that one.

—–


	210. Beckett, captain, bronchitis

#268, #277

* * *

 _Beckett, captain, bronchitis_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

Rick has barely cleared the front door when his mother flurries before him in a sea of pungent face powder, perfume, and somehow fuchsia. A color shouldn't have a musk to it, but his mother manages it just the same.

"Please tell me you're leaving, and taking that with you," he says, frowning into her beaming face even as he kisses her cheek. "You know Kate will hack up the other lung when she gets home."

"Not for another six hours, darling, and do try to be _nice_ to me, I've made you dinner and stuck it in the fridge to heat up."

"Mother, your dinners are never edible-"

"Oh, hush," she chides, still smiling with a perversity of feeling that leaves him utterly high and dry. He's just not equipped to deal with Martha Rodgers in full persona this afternoon; he's spent the last six weeks sitting at Kate's bedside just pleading with her to _breathe_.

Bronchitis after a near-fatal gunshot wound that collapsed one lung - not ideal, especially not for a woman who can't slow down, take a day off, or take a _load_ off for one lousy second. Well, a six-week hospital stay forced her down, that's for sure, but it wasn't any _fun_.

Misery is Kate Beckett in bed for six weeks, propped up to keep her lung from collapsing, struggling to get a deep breath. Misery is being the husband of such a woman after thinking they'd just gotten out of the woods only to be-

"Darling, it's time you know."

Rick Castle jerks himself back into the present with a violence borne of decades of hearing _just_ that tone from his mother's lips. And it never bodes well. Never. "Mother. It's time I know _what."_

"Don't look like that," she sniffs. Her hand gestures wildly away, as if dismissing his looming sense of doom, and the rock flashes and catches the afternoon light - practically blinding.

"Is that - oh my God, Mother - did you get engaged?"

"Well, it's just a trifle-"

" _Mother_." He grabs for her hand and yanks it into view. The stone is massive. Not just a diamond, oh no, never. A diamond rock with two flanking emeralds the size of crusty barnacles. "Mother… to _whom_? There hasn't been anyone since Chet, and he _died_ -"

"Oh, really, Richard, you sound-"

"I sound hysterical, that's what I sound like. I know. Because I am. Because I spent six weeks caged in a hospital while Kate was basically dying, and now you're engaged - and you were _there_ for most of that time. Who-"

He stops abruptly short, horror dawning through him.

"Oh, Richard, don't look at me like that."

"Oh my God, Mother, please tell me you did not-" He swallows roughly and scrapes a hand down his face, can't fathom how she could be so callous, so unfeeling. She's always looked out for herself; he did inherit her winning self-absorption. But this is too much. "Not Jim Beckett. Mother. Not-"

"Who? Jim _Beckett_? Oh, for goodness' sake, _Richard_. Don't be crass."

His relief is so great he sinks to the back of the couch and clutches the cushions to keep himself upright. His knees don't seem to want to lock.

"Not _him_. Merciful - no. It's Max. Wonderful Max. We just - couldn't keep our hands off each other. He says I'm the one he let get away, and of course, we've never met before now. He's being romantic, but he did say I was his type - he has a thing for redheads - don't worry, darling, I kept Alexis well away from his grandson-"

"Wait, who - hang on. Mother. Who is Max?"

"Max Rutherford, darling. He-"

" _Dr._ Rutherford? Kate's pulmonologist? The man who has been treating her for bronchitis and pneumonia? Are you-"

"She's been released, darling, she comes home today."

"That doesn't make me feel _better_."

"It should. He's very good. He said Kate was at death's-" His mother breaks off at the look on his face and hastily pats his back, squeezes his shoulders. "Now, now, Richard. Max and I have talked all about the rather - difficult ethics here, and he's recused himself from her case. Is that what you call it for doctors? No, I don't think so. Anyway, Kate is just fine; she's coming home today."

"And you've stolen her doctor away. The one who saved her life."

"Oh, Richard, you're being so melodramatic." Martha pats his cheek and the ring goes off like a flash bulb. "She no longer needs his services. I most certainly do."

"Mother."

Martha is already heading for the door, her suitcase pulled along behind her, the fuchsia and perfume cloud following her. She lifts her fingers in a wave. "Oh, Richard, really. Do try and be happy for me for _once_. He's a very good man; he can keep me in the style to which I have become accompanied. And _you_ aren't paying for it. Plus, it gets me out of your hair as Katherine heals. Ta-ta, darling. Kiss her for me."

He stares bewildered at the door and then starts forward after her, out into the hall to cry out after her. "What - what about Alexis?" Like it's the only weapon he has left.

She turns at the elevator, sliding her sunglasses down. "Max is taking me to her place to say good-bye. We'll-"

"Good-bye?" he gasps.

"We're going to Atlantic City, and then - well - you know. The world." She makes an extravagant gesture and the elevator door pings as it opens.

Rick Castle belatedly realizes that this really might be the last he sees of his mother for a while. She's been staying at the loft 'for his sake' and now…

"Au revoir, Richard." She blows him a kiss and the elevator door slides shut.

He's not sure he wants her gone.

He's not sure he really wants her _here_ either, not with Kate's bad lungs, the issues with her slow recovery, their constant fights to ease her workload and let him help. He didn't want his mother present for that, front row seats to their inevitable crash and burn, and yet-

—–

 _268, continued, please! :)_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

—–

She settles slowly back into the couch, feeling brittle. Castle, beautiful man, doesn't hover, simply takes her bag to the bedroom and unpacks for her, letting her adjust on her own.

It's strangely silent in the loft. The hospital was so loud, always busy, someone coming in to visit or take vitals, doors opening down the hall, patients coughing or moaning, the nurses talking or being paged overhead, the little troupes of student doctors and their instructor coming around.

The loft is luxurious, rich quiet.

Are her eyes closed?

At least she's breathing. She's never before felt so grateful to be breathing. She has a faint rattle in her lungs when she listens for it, but not even post-op recovery from the gunshot wound felt as bad as bronchitis and pneumonia.

Collapsed lung, suffocating, unable to lie down, her hips aching, misery. She cried so much that she grew sick of herself only a week into it, and God knows her husband must have the patience of a saint.

"What do you need?"

Her eyes open. "Just you."

"Water, tylenol, and the inhaler are right here-"

"Rick," she murmurs, closes her eyes. "Just you."

"Yeah, sorry, I'll stop."

She would sigh if she had the strength. Instead she opens her eyes and reaches for the pocket of his jeans, tugging to bring him down. "You've been good. I've been a bitch."

"Only a little," he whispers, kissing her temple. His lips are warm, and she shifts to invite him down with her. He sits gingerly, an arm stretched over the back of the couch. "You okay?"

"I'm just tired, wanna lean against you."

He chuckles at that, but draws her into him, easing her to his chest and adjusting her limbs, her head, her hair. Six weeks ago she would have minded that maneuver, but six weeks ago she was only coughing so hard she couldn't sleep. After being dragged to death's door, a little manipulation was just fine.

"Want the tv on?" he whispers. "Kinda quiet in here."

"Mm, movie?" she mumbles. Breathing hurts. Her sinus cavities have been burned out by antibiotics and antivirals, but nestled up to his sweater like this creates a nice little pocket of warm air, easier to breathe.

"Movie it is," he says. "Gonna lean back and grab the remote." She feels him stretch behind the couch for the little console table that holds their television accoutrements. He has to tug the drawer open, fish around inside for the right remote before he can sink back down.

"I'm fine," she preemptively tells him. The exhaustion from riding the elevator up and walking down the hall has begun to dissipate, and she realizes it really is weirdly quiet in here.

The television clicks on; Castle surfing for movie channels. She lifts her head and glances to the kitchen, trails her gaze to the stairs.

"Rick?" She blinks and tries to catch up mentally to the feeling in her guts. "Rick, where's Martha?"

"My mother left," he chokes out.

"What?"

"She eloped with your pulmonologist."

"Dr Rutherford?" she chokes.

"Hey, hey, easy, take it easy." He cradles the back of her head but she resists, sitting upright, pushing off his chest.

But it's not like that makes Martha magically appear. It's eerie in the loft; his mother really is gone.

"She eloped with Dr Rutherford," she echoes.

"Max," he mutters.

"Oh my God. That's-"

"Shameful-"

"-hilarious. Oh God." Her elbows collapse her back against his chest, but she's too far gone. Her lungs seize with laughter, cracking her ribs with the effort of breathing through the gasps.

"It's not funny," he whines.

But it is. Oh, it is. "Only - only Martha," she wheezes, moaning as her bronchial passageways protest the laughter. "Oh God, that hurts. So good."

"It does, does it?" Castle growls at her temple, holding her at an angle against him to help her lungs stay inflated. "Well, now we have the privacy for a lot more of that _hurts so good_."

She tilts her head back to look at him, wheezing and barking with laughter. She manages to reach up far enough to lightly slap his cheek. "Yes, we do. Oh God. Not tonight, but soon. Gonna tie you up."

He grunts, shakes his head. "Not _soon_ , woman. Jeez, Beckett. You absolutely have no sense of your own limits, do you?"

"And you love it."

—–


	211. Castle, Scrabble, hurt feelings

#270

* * *

 _Three word prompt: Castle, Scrabble, hurt feelings_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

"Don't sulk," he murmurs, coming up at her back and framing her hips with his hands. Gently.

Or rather, gingerly.

"Ka-ate," he sing-songs, brushing his lips to her neck. Her shoulders are still hunched. "Don't sulk. One game in twenty. Come on. Don't act like a sore loser."

She spins away from him, shoves off. "You don't have to act like an immature brat when you win, either." She shows him her back, not her face, and he knows he hurt her feelings.

Most times he makes her laugh. Not this time.

"Acting like a jackass is part of my schtick," he says, following her out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. She yanks the decorative pillows off and slings them towards the bench under the window, missing wildly.

Castle winces. Tries a different tack.

"Let me make it up to you, Kate."

"I'm not playing another game with you right now." A pillow is flung just past his hip and he steps to the side.

She rips aside the comforter and puts a knee on the mattress, her back still definitely to him. If she won't even look, if she keeps her anger held close inside, then it's worse for them later. He knows that much.

"Hey, the therapist said not to go to bed mad."

"Screw your therapist; he doesn't know me," she snaps. Her eyes are now on his, glittering. "If you keep digging at me, Castle, I will say something we will both regret."

"Wow. You're really pissed."

"Wow. You're really dense." She turns her back to him again and crawls into bed, pulls the covers up, her face against the pillow. "Turn off the light, Castle."

He does automatically, reflexively, and then he stands at the foot of their bed in his pajamas and doesn't know what to do.

She huffs in the nightlight-striped darkness. "Get in bed."

He shuffles to the bed and sits down, hashes the last hour of Scrabble play, searching for where he went so vibrantly wrong. He can't remember being any more annoying than usual, can't pinpoint a time when he got to be too much.

Well, okay, she did warn him more than once that he was being insufferable. But she always says that when they compete against each other. She says that when they have sex. It's not exactly a new thing in their relationship, and it's usually how he manages to win. When he wins. Annoying her into submission, defeat, and extolling his own victories.

Not tonight.

"Lie _down_ , Castle."

He lies down. Puts his legs under the covers, stares up at the ceiling. Thinks hard.

Oh. He did say something faintly like _not so quick on the draw tonight_.

Is that it? A knock of her marksmanship skills, even though he was talking about how long she needed to complete her turn.

Because he was shot in their kitchen, and she was shot twice before she managed to bring down their shooter.

Is that really why all this?

Years ago. That was years ago. Why is that a thing now when-

She growls softly in the muted darkness. "Castle. Stop thinking so hard. It's two in the morning. Go to sleep. It will be fine tomorrow."

She doesn't really sound fine; she sounds frustrated, impatient, stiff. She sounds like it's more than he'll ever know or untangle and the idea that he can't or won't do the digging for that more makes her sad.

Or maybe he's just character sketching and she's merely tired.

Sometimes she falls asleep faster pressed against his ribs. (She listens to his heart, he thinks, relaxes only to that constant reassurance.) So Rick shifts closer to the center and opens his arm, tunnels his hand under her pillow and nudges.

"No," she sighs. "Not - just-"

He somewhat manhandles her. He reaches across to grip her calf, curls his arm under her pillow, tugs her across the mattress to the middle. Her angular spine is still presented to him, but does subtly press her hips back until she bumps his.

He lowers his arm and she adjusts the pillow, says nothing else.

She starts creeping away by small adjustments.

He sighs, pulls her right back. "Stay, Beckett."

She huffs and twists as if she'll shove him.

He ignores that, keeps an arm curved at her neck. "Don't have to like me right now," he says, staring up at the ceiling. "I know you don't." He hit a nerve somehow; he will simply have to wait until the inflammation dies down. "But don't make yourself suffer a sleepless night because you're too stubborn to lose face. _Stay._ "

She lowers her head to the pillow. Her elbow twitches. A long moment of silence as they're both aware of how petulant she's being.

And then she offers him a grudging, "I'll stay," and huddles into the mattress.

Castle lifts just enough to catch the corner of the comforter and he draws it up to her shoulder, smoothing the material before settling down again.

—–

Around six in the morning, the alarm he forgot to dismiss gives a croaking bleat three times into the blue light of the bedroom.

Kate has turned in the night. She winds around him in every way, her mouth open in troubled sleep, twitching, until he can fumble the alarm to a stop.

With the cessation of that annoyance her body relaxes, his name a sigh.

—–


	212. John, Woo, Date

#271

* * *

 _3WP: John, Woo, Date_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

"Alright, what's the line-up?" she said, shrugging off her jacket. He caught it before she could let it drop, which surprised her, since she'd been willing to let it dangle from her fingers. "And do you own all these movies or are we watching Netflix?"

"Own, of course, Beckett."

She stopped, turning to watch him put her jacket in the coat closet. "Kate," she insisted softly.

His head snapped around, his eyes crinkling as he smiled. "Kate," he conceded, lips twitching. "And the line-up is a surprise."

She smiled in return, took his hand as he came to her side. Their fingers touched at the tips, little electric sparks between skins, and she liked looking at him, loved looking at him.

"Day four of your suspension. How's it turning out for you?"

She chewed on her bottom lip. "We'll see, won't we?"

He chuckled, and released her hand to touch the small of her back, guiding her towards the kitchen. "Wine, water, something in between?"

"John Woo needs beer, I think."

His face creased as he turned to the fridge, but she saw it, caught the grimace at her suggestion. She leaned into the counter, wondered how long he'd suppress his natural objections to their difference in tastes. How long did they have before all this newness and anticipation wore off?

"Castle," she admonished. "You don't want a beer, don't. Have a glass of wine, give me one of your fancy imported beers."

"You're using me for my fancy imported beers. I knew it." But he was smiling, and he pulled a solitary bottle from the fridge, pried off the top with the bottle opener himself. He set it before her on the counter. "And it's Rick."

She laughed, picked up the bottle to salute him. "Rick."

She really loved the heat in his eyes when she said his name like that.

He poured himself a glass of red and came around the counter, held out his arm for her hand, fingers wriggling. She took it and followed him through the living room to his office where he had set up the couch before the fifty-two inch television.

Always had been her favorite room in the loft, and after that lightning-crashed first night together, she had fun memories to complement the appealing layout.

They settled in the couch, comfy, the leather cool. He placed his glass of wine behind him on the marble windowsill, picked up the remote as she pulled her knees up and into his thigh.

The television came on with a soft pop, the blue logo pinballing. She took a pull of the beer and tasted the faint touches of lemon and apple, reminiscent of hard cider but infinitely better. "Maybe I really am using your for your imported beer."

Castle laughed, already opening his arm to encase her shoulders. She nestled in, laid her cheek against his chest even though she was hunched.

His lips brushed her forehead, the menu titles for Paycheck came onscreen. "You don't have to fold yourself into a pretzel for me, Kate. You want to sit up, sit up. We can cuddle later."

She blushed, lifted her chin to study his face. And then she unfolded from her hunched in position, set the beer on the windowsill with his wine. "I think we can do this, just - change it up a little."

He raised an eyebrow. "How's that."

"Don't put your arm like that, try this." She took him by the wrist and pulled his arm forward, wound her own around it. He looked at her in askance, but she dug one knee into his hip, figuring it out on the fly, drawing his arm to drape at her leg. In that arrangement, his hand fit naturally over her calf, and she lowered her other leg to squeeze his arm, leaned in against his side to prop her chin on top of his shoulder.

She was almost behind him like this, but not quite. His arm, thick and strong, ran between her knees so that he practically gripped her ankle.

"How's this?" she said hopefully.

Castle visibly swallowed. He was staring at her, devouring her with his eyes. "It's - very good."

She grinned, couldn't help pushing in to kiss him.

He grunted into the kiss, his fingers dug into her calf. His mouth was aggressive, urgent, and she found herself gripping the front of his shirt, shifting her hips.

He his free hand, chilled from the wine glass, came to her neck and brushed back to her ear. She shivered and broke from the kiss, breathing hard, feeling scattered.

He rubbed a finger at her jaw. Her body bloomed with heat.

"Not gonna watch John Woo movies, are we?" she husked.

"No."

—–


	213. Castle, Beckett, Twins

#272

* * *

 _Three word prompt: Castle, Beckett, Twins._

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

"Don't move, don't move," she whispers, lying half curled on the bed with the boys.

Castle pauses, only halfway inside the room. "Don't move?" he says, lowering his voice at the scathing look she sends his way. "Why can't I move?"

"They're both asleep," she hisses. "At the same time. On the same schedule."

He stares at her, then studies the babies. He can't see Jake's face; he thought he saw twitching, but if she says they're asleep- "It can't last," he whispers.

"Shut _up_ , Castle. Don't jinx us."

"Sorry, sorry." He searches for wood and raps his knuckles on the end table, unthinkingly.

At the noise she nearly comes off the bed to strangle him, but as it is there's absolute murder in her eyes. How did they never catch a case in which a woman had killed her partner for doing something stupid around the baby?

They probably hid the body too well.

"If you come any further into this room, I will murder you."

He nods, agreeing entirely, arresting his movement just before the bed. "As I thought, yeah. But what do I do?"

"Just stand there. Don't move. Don't breathe wrong."

"Why do _you_ get to lie on the bed with them."

"Hush," she warns, scowling. Scolding. "Because this is where I was when they fell asleep - I mean, God. Castle. They fell asleep together."

"They are twins."

"Don't be an asshole."

"Don't curse-"

"Whatever. They're asleep."

He meant at _him_. But yeah, whatever.

She's finally stopped scowling to stare down at them. Their babies. He would really love to creep up on the bed and crawl in, do some staring himself. But the murder thing stays him.

Kate lays her head down on her arm and her eyes practically devour the boys. She seems to realize, after a long moment, that he's still just standing there stuck in the middle of the room, because she gives him a sweet smile.

"What're you doing, Rick? Get over here."

He doesn't mention she's the one who told him to freeze; he simply steps forward and eases his too-awkward body onto the mattress, staying well away from the babies who sleep head to toe in the middle of the bed.

Jake has one little arm over his head, face turned towards Kate, thumb in his mouth. Slack. Reece's fat cheeks and feathery eyelashes make Rick's heart go soft, and he has to make an effort to keep from touching them, caressing their little fists or kissing their little faces.

"Aren't they beautiful?" she whispers.

He nods, not daring to speak.

—–


	214. Don't lick that

#273

* * *

 _Don't lick that! ㈳9_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

"Gross, Kate. I'm not letting that dirty tongue anywhere near my-"

From above, she lifts an eyebrow. His head tilts, eyes shifting; he blinks slowly as if his own words are filtering to his brain.

"Never mind," he says, a low rumble in his chest.

Kate squeezes her knees at his ribs in reward, curves her tongue around the strawberries and kale popsicle in a wide arc.

His eyes track the sweep of her tongue, dart to the drop of melting popsicle where it slides down the stick and over her sticky fingers.

The air conditioner has been out for nine hours; July is brutally pressed against their windows despite every shade and blind and curtain being drawn against it.

Her sweat slicks her naked back in the same slow drag as the popsicle drips, as her tongue strokes, and he can do absolutely nothing.

She cuffed him two hours ago; she has not let him rise from the damp spot on the fitted sheet, the bed bare but for their two bodies.

She sucks loudly, lewdly, at the base of the popsicle, her lips firm, her teeth to the greenish pink flesh.

Castle groans, tossing his head back on the mattress, eyes sliding shut. His hips work under her and she grins, licking furtively at her fingers and wrist, the inside of her elbow-

"I can do that for you," he growls.

"I thought you said my popsicle was gross. I thought you said even _kissing_ my mouth after I ate it would be-"

"I was wrong. I repent." His eyes are wide, pupils blown, hungry. "For punishment, I'll eagerly slurp melting kale from your skin."

Kate takes a last drag of her tongue up the popsicle and then lowers it, letting it linger on her lips. She touches the bitten end of the melting treat to the round hollow of his navel and Castle yelps.

"Cold?" she says innocently.

"Ah, hell," he pants, twisting under her.

She leans in, planting her free hand at his shoulder - the uninjured one - and then she slowly presses her mouth to his.

He laps eagerly at her lips and moans.

She grins against his mouth, his eager tongue. "I thought you said kale tasted like dead fish and-"

"I don't even care, damn it, woman. Get back here."

But she's already climbing off the bed and sauntering for the bathroom where she tosses the popsicle into the trash. When she comes back, he's twisting his wrists in the cuffs and trying to rip his legs free of his good silk ties.

He stills when she approaches, his chest working like a bellows, his lips a little shiny. "Where's - the popsicle?" he pants.

"I have another," she answers. And Kate climbs back on.

—–


	215. Beckett massages Castle

**#274**

* * *

 _Three word prompt: Beckett massages Castle_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

When she slinks inside, far too late tonight, he picks his up from the arm of the couch and lays his book flat to his chest. "Mornin'," he drawls. "How'd it go after I left?"

If the words are pointed, it's probably her own guilt sharpening those edges. "Morning," she whispers, still cautious. "Fine?"

"No need for that," he says. "I'm supposed to be writing." Cheerful as he waves the paperback whose cover is bent. She can't tell what it is, but roughly three hundred pages of trade. "This is better than Nikki at the moment, but I could be persuaded. If you're good."

She steps out of her shoes, shedding her coat and bag. "Are you propositioning me at three a.m.?"

"If you have to ask," he rumbles.

"Sorry that I'm late," she admits.

"You're not." His face flushes. "Not sorry, I mean. You are late, but late for what? Dinner? We had dinner at the precinct about six hours ago. After the beast tackled me."

She wrinkles her nose because that is actually pointed. "Received, loud and clear." She maybe should have come home with him, played doctor or sympathetic girlfriend or whatever his whimpering needed.

Since leaving DC, she's been somewhat out on a limb, feeling caught at every turn. She ought to be at her own apartment, but the lease has two more months. She's back at the 12th finally, and maybe trying to prove herself worthy of being taken on faith. She's here, and quite late, and it's not precisely her home yet.

"You're thinking too hard about this, Kate. It's not like we have kids you're supposed to be hurrying home to."

She freezes halfway down the hall, but she's certain there was no petulance in his voice. Certain. But what _was_ in his voice?

"Rick?" she calls out, moving away again, loosening the back from her earring with a tilt of her head. "Come with me."

A noncommittal reply in his response. She places her jewelry on the little dish on top of the dresser, scans the framed photos that could be conceivably called _theirs_. She slides her phone out of her pocket and tosses it on the bed, unbuttoning her dress shirt.

"Rick? Follow me to bed."

It's three in the morning. He's on the couch reading… for distraction, to keep from writing?

With her shirt hung in the closet to keep it from getting wrinkled, her pants folded and set aside for dry cleaning, she listens for sounds that Castle is actually obeying.

He's not.

She changes into grey shorts, too short really for winter, and one of the soft t-shirts he's always tunneling his hands under, and she comes back out of the closet to find the room empty.

Hm.

He did take a rough tackle from a suspect attempting a dodge. So did Ryan, whom Kate thought took the brunt of that one.

She pads back down the hallway to find Rick still flat on the couch with his head on the pillow against the arm, his fingers probing his collarbone. He freezes at her approach, drops his hand, fumbling for the book he's 'reading.'

"Let me see," she says softly, reaching down to the buttons of his badly wrinkled dress shirt. "You haven't changed clothes?"

He's mute. Avoiding her gaze, even as he helplessly lets her unbutton him, draw aside the shirt. His white undershirt makes her scowl, but the convenient v-neck is no obstacle to her determined hands.

His chest is bright purple in a line across his collarbone and maybe - maybe farther. "Rick."

"Oh," he says, glancing down, craning his neck. "That's worse than I thought."

"Rick." She sinks down to the couch at his hip in stunned aftershock, a ripple from nearly nine hours ago somehow now slamming into her. Clotheslined. He must have been clotheslined as their suspect took out Ryan. "Did you ice this?"

"Yes. Once or so. I… didn't know it was this bad."

"Vinegar?" she murmurs, eyes tracking the bruise as her fingers expose more of his skin. "Witch hazel?"

"I'm sorry, are you are medicine woman now?"

Her lips twitch and her eyes lift to his, find he's amused with her. Faintly aroused. She leans forward and lightly kisses his sternal notch, just above the line of black-purple-blue. "Shirt off, if you can move your arms after lying there frozen in one spot like a dummy. I'll get the witch hazel."

"Witch hazel," he draws out, making his voice purr like she's said something sexy.

She hasn't. Witch hazel and vinegar don't smell particularly sexy, as he'll find out.

Kate lifts to her feet and snaps her fingers at him to move; he does with pained stuttering and little whimpers, playing it up for her even as she walks off. She searches through the master bathroom for her first aid kit, secretly set at ease by the fact he hasn't asked how she knows, more secretly distressed that it's probably because he already knows how she knows, and remembers all too well her ugly consequences of choosing rooftop wrangling with a sniper over him.

As she did again today, even if she didn't fully know it.

She turns and returns quickly, head down and thoughts swirling, but she runs into him in the hallway. Literally. He grunts and catches her shoulders with a tightness in his lips that belies the tightness across his chest, but he turns her around. Back for the bedroom.

She glances over her shoulder to find him following, his shirts in a fist, his chest bare and angry and wide. Flesh and purpling flesh. She has arnica gel somewhere too, and aloe, and-

"Stop," he grumbles. "Where do you want me?"

She switches off her internal guilt and gesture to the bed, tries a lift of an eyebrow in suggestion.

Which he takes, leering back at her, even leaning in to steal a kiss that might just have bruised her lips a little. Giving her what she deserves, letting her share-

"Stop," he says again, turning his head to look at her even as he sinks down. "You're not late."

She sighs and takes her first aid supplies to the bed, finds something like _rightness_ when he falls before her, lying on his back in supplication. Vulnerable. She straddles his hips, the feel of his belt and stiff jeans like scratches against her bare inside thighs.

His hands brace her hips, his eyes trusting on hers. Willing.

"Pants?" he suggests. The corner of his mouth amused.

She lifts an eyebrow but divests herself of the bottles and cotton pads to divest _him_ of his pants. Slowly. The belt buckle an agony to them both as her knuckles bump and (only a little) grind. He takes little taut breaths and lets her do the work, only slightly raising his hips for her.

Making her work for it. All part of her-

He doesn't say _stop_ , she says it to herself. Too often she slides right back to that lightning-punctured night, to that moment outside his door and up against his door still trying to prove herself. Too often she can't seem to feel forgiven despite all the many ways he likes to invent to forgive her.

She has him in nothing but hazy silk boxers when she straddles him again; he gives a long, lovely sigh and his lids go lazy. Leonine.

She peels a cotton pad away from the stack, soaks it in vinegar first, witch hazel next, even as his nose wrinkles in distaste. The soaked pad she runs lightly across the line on his chest, more and more until the gleam on his skin runs in rivulets down his ribs to the bed.

She puts the bottles and cotton on the bedside table, in case she needs another application, and she sees his eyes crack open, watching her to check if that's it.

That's not all.

Kate leans back over him and reaches out with her damp fingers, begins running the astringent combination over his bruised chest.

Rick goes very still.

She doesn't press, doesn't push; it's not a deep tissue massage. This is about healing blood flow, circulation, and she makes light circular motions with the tips of her fingers even as the strong scent floods the room.

Circular light touches. Distracting as well as healing.

Rick's hands clutch at her hips and loosen. His eyes watch her as if stoned.

He'll fall asleep like this before she ever has a chance to repay him for the late hour, for the pain she didn't notice.

But at least he'll know. She doesn't have words, but he'll always know, even if he hides from her.

—–


	216. Beach, lost trunks

**#275**

* * *

 _Three words prompt: Beach, lost trunks ;)_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

"Whoa, you didn't really," she gasped, staring at him across the moon-chopped waves. She rode a swell closer to him, treading water a little, pushing her toes into the sandbar for a little more force. "Tell me you did _not_ lose your suit."

He gave a happy wave of his hand and grinned.

"Oh my God, Castle."

"It's my beach," he shot back. "You've seen me naked."

"And so have half the poor people in Central Park the day you stole a police horse, not to mention that bender in LA where you set the curtains on fire and then _brought_ me to stay-"

"You're getting seriously sidetracked here, Beckett."

She pushed off the sand again and caught his shoulders, narrowing her eyes at his adventurous happiness. "This isn't a good thing, you do realize. Walk of shame _all_ the way back up the house-"

"To the pool house only." He shrugged under hands and she liked the feeling of the warm sea around her, the darkness of deep summer night, and his skin, briny from the salt. "I've got spares. And robes too, come to think of it. It won't be that long of a naked walk."

"Long enough." She wasn't sure if she was really arguing with him, or what she was trying to say. She could feel her own body inside her swimsuit, inside the ocean itself, the play of material and wave, the sensations across her stomach and breasts. "Long… enough. Glad it's not me."

She touched his hips. He was predatory in the moon, in the faint scudding of clouds that washed over the ocean's surface like something was alive. He took a rough kiss from her, holding his body away (or maybe it was the waves pushing at them, the current).

He nibbled on her lips, sucked lightly at the corner of her mouth like after tequila shots, salt. "Come on, you should lose your suit too."

"What," she gasped, thinking _this could be it, now, this is the story I want to tell him when it finally happens to us._

"Solidarity."

"Solidarity," she murmured, her mouth to his. A kiss that was as lazy as his seduction, but of course it worked both ways. His fingers were under the leg of her swimsuit, higher. She pushed down a strap and he got the idea, helped peel her out of it as the waves bobbed them high and took them low.

She caught her toes on the sandbar and stood en pointe, feeling her calves flex as he held her up. He had a handful of wet material in one hand; she heard the obscene squelching it made as he brought it up. "What do I do with this?"

"I hate it," she admitted. "It's boring and it reminds me of therapy."

"But I love the way you do laps in my pool like a selkie."

"I don't want it," she said. "Let it go. Let it travel with yours to distant lands."

He laughed and let the thing puddle on the surface, where air pockets kept it up for a few moments before waves and time took it, washed it down and away, past the sandbar.

"We'll find it on the beach in the morning," she said.

"Well, we won't. About nine houses down - they will."

She laughed then, chewing on her lip, unsure how to get this started again now that they'd paused. "I hate pool therapy, but at least it means I can do this." She twined a leg around his and pressed herself against him. "Oh. That's very promising, Rick."

He grunted, casting her a sideways look like maybe she was making fun of him. She wasn't; he had always impressed her. Made her excited just feeling his excitement.

He gripped her ass and tugged her closer, using the natural motion of the sea. A suggestive rhythm. It was all very promising; she wanted this to be the moment, the one they looked back on to say _that was it_.

"I miss you," he said suddenly into her neck. He stroked her thighs. "I've missed you, and this, and laughing."

"We're better now," she promised him. Touching him too, rediscovery, as cliche as sounded even in her head. "We're not going to die."

"No, no," he said, almost laughing. "We're not going to die. Solidarity, huh. We almost took it too far."

"No," she countered, finding the right angle now so that he groaned. She had to stop for a second, get used to that again. "No, we didn't take it too far at all."

"I'd die with you," he choked out. "I'm dying right now."

"Don't die," she whispered, rocking. He shuddered hard and she stopped now for him, gave him that second to get used to it. How they felt together. "Don't die without me."

"Come on, then," he said roughly, and crushed her in his arms.

—–


	217. ice, ice baby

**#276** (season 2 insert)

* * *

 _prompt ...ice, ice baby_

 _— PRDNANNY_

* * *

Kate's breath whistled through her teeth as she cautiously leaned back against his hallway wall. Her heart was still throbbing from the adrenaline, blood rushing in her head.

And her chest wasn't so great.

She sank to the floor in an almost-controlled collapse, landed hard on her ass. Castle, dazed, whirled towards her with her extra piece in his hand, his eyes wide.

"Beckett," he croaked.

"I'm okay," she breathed. "Okay." Her eyes were starting to roll back in her head, not good. The pain had made itself very evident now that the shooting was over. "Get - make sure his gun is clear."

"I shot him." But Castle stumbled towards their downed suspect, kicked the gun down the hall. "I - oh. He's… dead."

"It's okay," she breathed. "He was trying to kill you." Her ribs were on fire. "Gotta call it in."

She saw him turn awkwardly, like his own limbs weren't obeying his brain's commands. She fumbled at her vest and tried to pull apart the velcro.

"I - who am I supposed to call?" Castle said. His voice was so close that it made her startle, and then his hands were covering hers, ripping off her bulletproof vest. "Beckett, who do I call?"

"Just - help me get to my phone."

He tugged at the vest and she groaned, pitching hard to one side. He caught her, propped her up. "You were shot," he gasped.

"The vest caught the slug," she said, licked her lips. "I'm fine. Hell of a bruise. Just. Get my phone."

"You - need ice," he said inanely. Blinked at her. She stared back at him and his mouth twitched. "Ice, ice, baby."

"Too cold," she breathed, trying to smile back.

But his mouth twisted and she saw that shock of _too close_ as it dawned on him. He had her phone now; she took it from him with numb fingers.

"It's okay," she told him. "I'm fine. I'll call it in. Just sit with me."

To his credit, he shut up and sat down.

Laid her extra piece carefully on the wood floor of the hallway.

"You got some crazy fans," she said, trying to bring back his banter, if not the smile. "Who knew?"

"Of course _you_ knew, you website lurker. Castlecakes13, right? No, wait, I got it. You're HotforRicky, aren't you?"

She put the phone to ear, pretending to ignore him. At least the color had come back to his face.

—–


	218. BIRTHDAY 47 SECONDS

# **279** , **311**

* * *

 _BIRTHDAY 47 SECONDS_

 _— GRIEVER11_

* * *

 _It's not smart, it's not brave. It's just cowardly._

She thinks about what he said, and didn't say, all night. Doesn't sleep for the bitterness in his words as they confronted the reporter, as Leanne West insisted she never meant for anyone to die.

And as the sun dawns, all Kate can see is the hard look on Rick's face in interrogation, how he wouldn't look at her.

Is he Rick now?

Yeah. God. The intimacy between them…

They've turned this interesting corner since the winter broke up and her anxious grief loosed its hold. The holidays aren't good for her, but she damn well tried, every single day, to keep that from building back those walls. Therapy twice a week, and then pushing herself to connect with Castle even if it all she could manage was letting him see her true face, smiling or broken, either way.

He's been rock solid.

Until this _case_. She can't put her finger on it; she can't tease out the reasons why their parting at the precinct left her on edge, confused.

Okay, a little miserable.

It's like she didn't have his attention any longer. And when she _did_ \- by some miracle - gain the long gaze of his eyes on her at the precinct, it was edgy too.

Is he worried about his birthday? She planned this surprise thing for Sunday, to swing by the loft and pick him up early, wanting to give what she could despite how much work there still is for her to do. For the first time, she's describing him as patient, and they're so close, she's so close, she can almost imagine the whole thing playing out, so easily, so smoothly, like relief.

Of course, her surprise means he knows nothing about it. Maybe he expects more from her, expected to hear her at least acknowledge the day, and she's disappointed him, made him sad.

Kate groans and flops on her back in bed, that thought twisting her guts.

She's so _bad_ at this, at being real with another person who matters so much. The vulnerability to him, to his least little whim or change in mood, is almost appalling. She battles every night to keep herself from calling him and asking for things she can't give back, selfish about this hole in her chest where her heart used to be.

She keeps _trying_ , and yet she's managed to bruise him anyway.

—–

When he opens the apartment door, scraping a sleep-deprived hand through his hair, he's rooted in place by the sight of her.

Hair pulled back at her nape, no jacket, an oversized plaid shirt with black leggings and boots. She has a pair of keys in her hand and her phone, the other hand behind her back, and he's astonished at how unprepared she looks.

Disheveled.

"Beckett?"

She draws her hand out from behind her back, offers him a to-go coffee from the fancy place two blocks over. Expensive coffee. And as he instinctively takes it, he sees a row of birthday candles drawn on the cardboard sleeve.

"My birthday's Sunday."

"Close enough?" She steps inside without his invitation, and he backs up, his pinky finger slowly awakening to the pain of too-hot coffee.

Castle adjusts his hold, shuts the door, and then pivots to watch her glide inside his loft. But instead of the graceful jungle cat, instead of all that cool self-restraint, he sees her hands twisting and her elbows pressed in close to her ribs, her shin hit the couch and then her body twisting awkwardly.

"I promise that's not your real birthday present," she says, and though the words sound easily formed, and the voice is that same alluring blend of smooth and rough that has always hooked him in the guts, neither element jives.

She sounds scared.

"Did something happen?" he asks, putting the coffee cup down on the decorative table behind the couch. "You look like someone has-"

 _taken a shot at you_. Castle bites that off before it can come out of his mouth, frustrated with himself now, and her, and how easily the insults come bubbling up in self-defense.

Just because she's embarrassed by his love of her, doesn't mean he gets to take pot shots at her psyche. She's still his friend, or she thinks she is anyway (how many friends lie to protect your feelings, string you along like-)

"Um, I didn't get any sleep," she says, straightening her shoulders. Stiffening her spine. But even as she postures strength and control, she's shooting him this shy look that makes his throat close up.

She shuffles back to the couch, but hovers. As if waiting on something.

Oh.

Duh. Him.

Castle jerks forward as if tugged by an invisible string (she does that to him; he's stupid to let her keep doing it). He sits at one of the couch, putting distance, and he sees her eyes on the coffee cup he abandoned on the table.

Lingering.

Her forehead draws in, her hands clasped in her lap. All of the certainty and strength she was trying so hard for has crumbled like the facade it was.

She tears her eyes away and instead her gaze falls on him.

Something in her lights up.

 _No_. He's _imagining_ this. It's all in his head; he just _wants_ it to be true. He wants her so badly he can conjure up reciprocity in an instant.

He has to be on guard for this; he's going to do something irrevocable if he can't get himself under control. (His feelings, his heart, his _body_ , his awareness, all of it, so finely tuned to her, needing her, thrumming when she looks at him like that).

There is no _like that._

"Rick."

Oh God, there's no saving him when she sounds nervous and excited and shy. That's not Beckett. That's not Kate either. That's something more, and he's spent the last four years at her side so he _knows_ that's-

He doesn't know shit.

It's all in his head.

"Rick, um. There's not really a good way to put this."

No shit there's not. He-

"As I get my head clear - and yeah, you don't have to say it, I know it's taken me a lot longer than you might have thought - but as I've managed, as I get a handle on the, uh, PTSD and I work with the therapist-"

"Therapist?" he blurts out, side-swiped by that. "You're still seeing the police shrink?"

"Yes." She nods and her head ducks, but her fingers go still. Pressing flat to her thighs. He refuses to quantify these movements any longer, what they mean, because he _doesn't know her_.

He doesn't know her. A therapist. She remembers every second of that bullet, so of course she needs a therapist.

"Yes, the therapist, Dr Burke. I'm putting it all back together after - after I was shot." Her hands lifts as if she's in a dream; she presses her fist in at her sternum and he sees, so clearly he can't mistake it, the wash of memory in her eyes.

The pain.

He's an asshole. He's such an asshole. He's supposed to be her friend, and above all else, if he loves her at all, he's supposed to continue being that friend.

Stop making this so hard for her. Stop taking it out on her.

"Kate? Can I get you something? Water, coffee-" He winces and leans into the couch to snag the to-go cup sitting forlornly on the table. "We can share this. You look… a little messed up."

She makes a strange noise in her throat and lifts helpless eyes to him. But she doesn't take the coffee. "I've had four cups already, and two shots of espresso. I should probably slow down."

"Oh. I thought you seemed jittery. Do you-"

"Castle, I'm in love with you-"

His jaw drops.

"…too." She flushed bright red, but her eyes stay fixed on his, burning. "Happy birthday?"

"Hap…. what?" he croaks. Coffee?

She instantly panics, jerking to her feet and backpedaling, but the instant he rises to go after her, he realizes she's merely pacing. Not leaving.

She paces when she talks, talks it out. He's standing dumbstruck as she stalks to the kitchen and then turns back, her hands spreading wide. "I love you?" She closes her hands into fists, drops her arms with a wince. "That's not a question. I'm just - uh - feeling some resistance from you and I could've sworn… but a lot of what I remember from that day is so distended, and prismed through a lot of pain, I could've just _wanted_ to hear… let's start over."

"What? No. No we are not starting over." He strides forward, slamming the coffee on the table so he can take her head in his hands. "Say it again."

Relief spills through her so fast that her knees dip. She clutches his arms, nods, her eyes searching his face. "I love you. I'm a little messed up still, but I swear I really am _trying_ and it won't be like this forever."

"Kate."

"Supposed to be for your birthday but this case just-" She shakes her head, and now she's _not_ looking at him, but he can still feel it crackling in the air between them. How she's attuned to him now, seeking any little thing, any sign. "This case, and keeping silent, and then the way you didn't really say good-bye to me-"

Her voice cracks and so does his heart. "Kate, I love you too." He yanks her into him, embracing her hard, mindful of _messed up still._ And walls. And waiting.

She snakes her arms around him and clings. The desperation that came out in her voice, that little girl like confusions, begins to fade, and her embrace grows less needy and more confident.

Strong.

"It's okay," he tells her, forgiveness in the words even though he hopes she never knows just how hard he faltered. "It's okay. I just don't like ever saying good-bye to you."

She lets out a breathy sound, laughter and reassurance, and she slowly steps back from him. Her hands linger at his stomach for one excruciating moment, and then she drops them. "Well, it's not good-bye then. But I should let you-"

"Oh no you don't," he says roughly, snagging her hand. "You're not going anywhere."

"Castle, I can't-"

"It's _my_ birthday present, isn't it?"

She wrinkles her nose, but already the air is different between them. Anticipation builds up, sweet and breathless, and her resistance is all for show.

"Since you woke me at this god-awful hour, you have to stay. I'll make breakfast. We'll see where the day goes."

"The day goes to _work_ ," she grumbles, but when he tugs on her hand, she crowds into his back, a sharp breath and her forehead coming down to the top of his shoulder.

He snags his coffee on the way and he can feel her smiling against his back.

* * *

 _Pre-dating impromptu proposal_

 _— MONALYSSA33_

 _#311 (continuation of 279)_

* * *

Sunday morning, April Fool's Day, also known as Rick Castle's birthday.

She's nervous. He knows she's coming because for the last few days, he's carefully teased and prodded her until her own self-confidence crashed and burned and she spilled her secrets.

He was sweet, and bashful about it, and a little bit chagrined to have made her so nervous.

She shifts on her feet in his kitchen and gives Alexis a small wave as the girl leaves. Thankfully, she closes the door without noise, and Kate lets out a breath.

It's probably a bad idea that she's doing this. Maybe a bad idea. He knows she has a plan for today, but even despite her shameful lack of self-confidence and that breakdown in the break room (there's a reason it's named as such), she didn't tell him this.

This was supposed to be how she tells him, instead of getting restless and feeling sick to her stomach one night about the look on his face when he left the Twelfth (left _her_ , her heart whispered). She told him then, that day, after too many shots in her espresso instead of today, his birthday, but it was going to be like this.

Kate blows out her breath and turns her back on the stove to wash fruit in the sink. Slowly. She takes her time, letting the rhythm of the water in the sink and over her hands do the work of relaxing her, releasing her tension.

She has already told him; they both know now.

It's not a big deal.

She cuts up the strawberries with a knife Alexis helped her find this morning when she was allowed to set up in his kitchen. Martha made a big deal over it too. Alexis seemed ambivalent at first but couldn't help sticking her nose in things. Kate is reasonably reassured they're on her side.

She arranges the strawberries on his plate. Carefully. It looks like a fringe of cheerful red kisses.

Her hearts bumps.

Kate turns to the stove and stirs the batter one more time to make sure there are no lumps, and then she pours a good sized amount onto the griddle. Of course he has a griddle, of course he has the best cooking instruments and utensils available. Alexis said her dad always makes _her_ pancakes for special days.

She has a stray thought - what if Alexis was planning this very same breakfast and Kate has deposed her?

Her hand shakes; she stands stunned for an instant before she forcibly dismisses it. Even if…

She can't worry about that now. It's her cringing lack of self-confidence talking. Deplorable, really, how much this thing with Castle, for Castle, makes her vulnerable and scared and giddy and sick and-

All these emotions, all these stupid feelings she never thought would rule her. Never _have_ , in the past. Dead-end relationships, he told her once before. Maybe so. And this is real, and that scares her, because real gets messy and difficult and she's best at the professional life not the personal.

Kate lets out a breath and keeps a careful eye on the pancake even now turning a lovely golden color. She times it, not rushing, and then she flips it over.

Slightly brown. Not what she was shooting for; he doesn't like crispy. She does, she likes the crunch, while he'll eat the almost raw, the soft; they're good that way, partners even in that.

Oh God, is she finding reassurance in the fact that they can knock out a plate of french fries no matter what?

Help. She needs help - she's already getting help, professional help, and all Burke has done is keep her calm when she freaks out that Castle can't possibly want to wait for her.

That deplorable lack of self-confidence again. Who knew that she would turn cowardly when it comes to _Castle_?

The pancake is done and she carefully slides it off the griddle, places it on his plate. Ringed with strawberries like a halo.

She makes a nice stack of them, finishing out the batter and choosing the best ones to put on his plate with her first. The first has to, because it's symbolic somehow, even if it is a little more brown than he might like.

At the last second, when everything is loaded on the tray and she's steeling herself to waking him up, biting her bottom lip with her teeth, she adds more strawberries to the top pancake.

She doesn't know why, she doesn't even really think it's _her_ , to do this, to act like this, but she outlines a heart.

Her own is pounding like mad.

Kate picks up the tray, eyeing the coffee and orange juice to be sure it won't slosh, and she carries everything slowly down the hall to his bedroom.

Her hands are clammy and her pulse is throbbing in her head and she still wonders if maybe this isn't Alexis's usual tradition she's somehow overthrown when she nudges open Castle's bedroom door.

He's already awake. Sitting up against the headboard and clearly has been awake for… a while.

She halts.

"I couldn't help… I watched you make me breakfast," he says quickly. "You made me breakfast?"

She jerks forward, the orange juice spills only a little. "I did. Yes. For your birthday."

He's grinning now, his hands are smoothing the comforter over his thighs, watching her come forward. He's grinning but it's not the eager one, not the Christmas one - it's shy too.

"I think the smell of coffee woke me," he says, like an apology. "I came out, through the office, and I saw you - biting your lip and blowing your hair off your face and it was… cute."

She's blushing. Hard. She sinks down to the bed and places the tray over his lap and can't quite meet his eyes for a moment.

"You made breakfast every Sunday when you lived with me, and it reminded me…"

Oh, God, she did. She used to _live_ with him.

"I mean, when you lived in the guest bedroom, not with me with me, just… well, but I'm not trying to say that I don't want you to live with me either, I'd really like that, I want to marry you-"

They both freeze.

She sucks in a breath and lifts her gaze and he's staring down at the pancakes.

"You made a heart," he murmurs. His eyes blink fast. "Kate. You made a heart with the strawberries."

"You - just asked me to marry you," she gasps.

Now his eyes startle up to hers. "I did?" He seems to replay his babble in his own head and then he grins. "I did not. I said I wanted to. I didn't actually ask. Do you want me to ask-"

"Oh my God. Shut up," she hisses, punching his arm. She sinks back to the mattress. "And happy birthday."

He pats the empty side of the bed and beckons. "Come up here with me. You are eating, right? I'm not just shoving food in my face while you watch. Get up here, Beckett. Where's your coffee?"

She doesn't move though. She wants to, she will, but not right this second. She takes his hand before he can reach for his mug, and she squeezes. His attention returns to her.

"This is how I was going to do it, all along. No April's Fool's joke, Rick. I love you too."

His face beams, he lights up like it might be the first he's heard of it. "I know," he says, grinning and squeezing her hand back. "You made a heart. I know."

She lets out a breath and shakes her head, standing up. "I left my coffee and the rest of the food in the kitchen. Be right back." And she leans in and places a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth, her fingers cradling his jaw.

When she pulls back to step away, _there_ is the awe and shock crashing on his face that she needed to see.

She heads to the kitchen with a lot more self-confidence now.

—–


	219. Beckett, birthday, alone

#280

* * *

 _TWP: Beckett, birthday, alone_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

She's Beckett now. Academy cadets call each other by their last names, and she's knocking the roof off their high scores lists, making her fellow trainees shit their pants. They can't hope to compete with her, and everyone knows it.

It's not just the physical. She's top-notch smart. She's lawyer-wannabe-judge smart; she's Manhattan and the best schools and a library in her own home and parents who encouraged critical thinking. She's Russian literature and the Violent Femmes, she's post-modern poetry and the Pixies. She learns at a high rate of speed, devouring her procedural classes and wiping the floor with criminal justice systems, a punk and a princess.

She's setting this town on fucking fire.

Closer now than ever, closer now to the damn truth than she has been since Detective Raglan showed up with his hat in his hands and told her father the case had gone cold.

Closer, but so _far_.

So fucking out of reach. Her rage is a cold fire in her guts that often feels something like anxiety, like standing at the top of a cliff and being buffeted by a wind almost stronger than herself, strong as she is.

That's why she's here this morning. _Morning_ , to show them it's not a drunken delusion. _Morning_ , to indicate how fucking serious this.

Beckett opens the door to the White Rabbit, darkness as blinding as the summer day outside. She pushes her sunglasses up on her head, her hair irritating her crooked ears in spiky chops.

She grits her teeth and steps into that darkness, going against all of her police training.

—–

It's just a key.

She brought it with her, of course, because she doesn't trust herself to explain it to the guy. A bear of a man, piercings and studs, a spike in his eyebrow, shaggy dark hair, tattoos not at all hidden by the rock band concert t-shirt he wears.

The tattoo artist flips the key over and over in his fingers, inspecting it. She won't explain the reason; it's not his business. But she finds herself longing for the words.

 _My life of locked doors. I batter myself against them, no hope of remaining unbroken. But those damn doors are going to open to me. They will be opened._

He nods as if she's spoken. Deemed worthy. As he sketches something on the computer, his assistant in training, a skinny guy with baggy jeans, swipes alcohol over her skin and shaves the area, alcohol once more as if for good luck.

The tattoo artist presents his final design. She nods, her throat dry with the hard beat of her heart. Her arm stretched out, waiting. She looks at the ceiling as he bends over her, feels the sting of the needle like a ragged nail scratching at her skin.

She counts the cracks where the foundation of the whole city has groaned and shown itself in the walls, the ceiling. She studies the stain in one corner, making assumptions, building a case. After fifteen minutes, the sting is mere annoyance; she has to resist the urge to bat it away.

At twenty minutes, he's doing the fine bore work, where it's closest to bone or nerves or something. She digs her nails into her palm and he tells her not to flex. She bites the inside of her cheek instead, tastes blood.

 _There,_ he says. It's been a surreal haze. She turns her head to look.

It's three inches. Black. A white filigree on the bow which gives it that old fashioned brass look, while the key wards jagged and dangerous.

She's had an heirloom key tattooed on the inside of her upper arm.

It burns.

Angry, red. The black so vivid it jumps from her skin. She turns her hand palm outward and the key twists as if in a phantom lock.

 _Happy Birthday_ , she thinks, watching it turn. Waiting to unlock.

 _Happy Birthday, Mom._

 _—–_


	220. whoa that's sharp

#282

* * *

 _3 words_"whoa that's sharp"_thx_

 _Arraydesign_

* * *

When Kate stepped out of the bathroom, steam billowing behind her, she found her husband already dressed, dazzling in his three piece suit.

"Whoa. That's sharp."

He looked up from his cufflinks, the little handcuffs she'd had made for him last year, and his nervousness spilled off him. "What's sharp? Did the dry cleaner's get the collar too-"

"You, babe." She smiled slowly and fisted the towel tighter in one hand, stalked towards him. "You're sharply dressed. Quite distinguished."

He broke a smile open for her and leaned in to peck at her cheek. She made a disgruntled noise in her throat and he took the hint with a sheepish chuckle, kissed her better than that, lips and a little swipe of his tongue.

"Much better," she murmured. With her damp fingers she swept a line down his lapel. "Knock their socks off."

He made a noise as if he didn't believe her, or if he wanted to believe her and couldn't get there. This man had the worst self-confidence when it came to his writer's career. She honestly didn't understand it.

So cocky at the personal, so wilting in the professional.

She was the opposite. They were a good complement that way.

"Rick."

He glanced at her like it was hard to tear his eyes away from himself in the mirror. She took his hand in hers, stilling his fiddling, and fixed his cufflink.

"Rick, you're very good. You know that. How many best sellers?"

He blushed pink in his ears. It was cute. She wouldn't tell him that, make him feel more like a little boy than he might already.

Instead she kissed his knuckles, dusting her lips across the fine hairs there, soft, and sighed when he stepped into her.

Untucked the towel, ran his hands - so heavy and strong - down her ribs to her hips. "You know I can't concentrate when you're like this."

"Haven't enticed you away in a while," she pointed out. "Is this because you're nervous about the award?"

"Yes," he grumbled. His voice sent a zip of pleasure down her spine like a current. "Do you mind being my distraction?"

"Do you mind undressing? I don't want to wrinkle your suit after all that."

He groaned and mouthed her neck, hands drifting up her back and in. She shivered in the cool air and his hot touch, stepped closer, suit be damned.

"I'll take half of it off," he said gruffly, compromise. A clear indication that he was still nervous.

"All of it off, Rick." She planned on wiping every last anxious thought out of his head.

—–


	221. beckett, allergic, cats

#289 (set during Beckett's suspension summer)

* * *

 _3 word prompt - beckett, allergic, cats_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

He was really excited about _something_. She didn't know what; he seemed to love surprises disproportionately more than she liked being surprised.

Which was not at all. Which was why she was so hesitant about showing up to his place after his day-long squirming-in-place excitement. But this morning he had stood in line for those fist-sized muffins that were all the rage in the city, and then he had come to her place with those and the gourmet coffee, and they'd been interrupted when she'd tried to thank him…

So Beckett scraped a hand through her hair and thumped on his front door.

She could do this. They could do this. A surprise. Game face.

"Beckett." He opened with a wide grin even as his mother descended the stairs in her satin robe and sleep mask pushed up.

Martha lifted a fluttering hand to her throat. "Darling, Katherine, next time? please do try _not_ to sound like the police are pounding down our door."

She winced. "Sorry, force a habit, Martha. I apologize-"

But his mother was already waving her hand and ascending the stairs once more. "Rehearsal in the morning. Have a good night, darlings." But she did stop at the top and turn around, pointing a finger at Castle. "If that thing keeps me up-"

"Mother, hush."

Beckett turned to Castle. "What's-"

"Nothing, come on. In here. I'll show you."

"You'll show me… nothing?"

"Alexis got a pet," he squealed. No, surely he wasn't really squealing. Except he was actually, he had squealed, his shoulders hunched up and his face alight with glee and she wasn't sure _how_ in the world she'd fallen in love with this man.

This man who squealed.

He was tugging her by the hand towards the office, his fingers thick and warm and strong-

Oh, that was part of it. Why she was in love with him. Though she hadn't known then what she knew now about how wonderfully strong and thick those fingers were.

"Come here, look, look," he said, and pulled her right over to the black leather couch.

Upon which a single ball of orange fur rested.

"Is that-"

Castle scooped it up and in one movement held the mewling, squirming thing right up to her face. "An adorable sweet kitten. Look at her. Isn't she so-"

Kate sneezed.

Hard, loud. Jerking backwards with it.

She stumbled over an armchair and had to clutch at the back to keep her balance. "Castle."

He looked astonished. Cat hanging in his cupped hands, about to spill out. "Kate?"

He stepped forward and she jerked back. "No, hang on, wait."

Castle stopped suddenly. Cute malevolent ball of fur.

"I'm allergic," she said. Held up a hand. "Highly. Don't…"

"Oh." His face fell. "I thought… I offered to keep her while Alexis is in Africa."

"Africa?" she gasped. "When did _Africa_ happen, Castle?"

"Uh, like, no, I swear, just today. Today. I think Alexis wanted to…" He trailed off and his face went slack. "Oh."

"Oh, she bought you a kitten to butter you up for Africa."

He winced. "She bought me a kitten to butter me up for Africa. Wow. I did not even see it. I was so…"

"Blinded by a ratty orange mewling-"

"Hey, now. It's cute."

"It's a ginger," she said flatly.

He narrowed his eyes. "As are my mother and daughter."

"And an ex-wife."

"Are we having a fight?" he hissed.

"Over a nasty cat?" she hissed back. "No. Just. I can't be here while that's here."

"Wow, that's really-"

"I'm allergic, Castle. My eyes swell. Everything itches. I can't stop sneezing. And then, if I stick around long enough, my throat closes up and-"

"Okay, yeah, done. I'll send the cat with mother to the theatre tomorrow. She'll find a home for it. Uh… in the meantime-"

"In the meantime, I'm going to my place before I get any on me-"

He smirked.

She narrowed her eyes, continued. "And if you take a long hot shower and scrub really good, I'll let you come." She paused long enough for him to get the message. "To my place."

Beckett turned on her heel and strode back out of his office.

She would be putting a moratorium on surprises.

—–

 **A/N:** I've skipped the Army Spy prompts because I've published it on the iheartspycastle tumblr.


	222. Jim, Castle, Fishing

**#292**

* * *

 _3 Word Prompt: Jim, Castle, Fishing_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

He was nervous.

Jim understood that, and in fact, maybe he wanted it that way. Maybe the man of twenty-something bestsellers who had somehow convinced his stubborn daughter to take a chance on happiness deserved to be nervous for once.

Jim simply tied the lure on his hook that much more slowly, letting the silence of the lake and the four a.m. wake-up call do the work for him.

And truly, he forgot.

Jim forgot Rick Castle was sitting hunched in the boat with him looking a little miserable and maybe also a little green. He forgot the coffee was black as he liked it and that Rick hadn't touched the thermos after that first sip (he'd be driven back to it when the caffeine headache kicked in). Jim even forgot that the lures had gotten trickier to tie now that he was another year older.

He let himself sink into the cool lake morning, the rock of rippling water against the hull of the boat, and his own slow breathing.

He watched his balsa wood float bob in the water before settling again. No tugs on the line yet, but that was fine. He had all day if need be, and the wide-brimmed floppy hat to keep the rising sun off his face. His nose was a little pink and tender from yesterday.

"Uh, sir?"

Jim startled so hard the boat rocked and the fish scared off, for sure, but there was his almost son-in-law sitting like a too-big boy in the prow of the boat.

"What is it, son?"

Rick blinked, hands folded around his fishing rod. "Uh, I don't know how to do this thing."

Jim's gaze traveled down to the pole propped between the man's feet. "You're doing just fine. Might want to not hold it like that around the reel, should you get a bite and it get to-"

"Oh, shit," Rick breathed, practically jumping as he rearranged his hands.

It was funny. It held some unsubtle symbology, a rod between his legs, gripping it too tight, lessons on how to hold it, but Jim wouldn't bring that up now. Later, maybe, when they were more like family and less like the guy having sex with Jim's daughter.

Give it two or five years and it would be a funny story.

"What about this?" Rick said, his gaze intent and guileless despite everything.

Jim had to give it to him; the man wanted to do it right. Not for himself, of course, because what could a millionaire bestseller with a family of his own possibly need from Jim Beckett?

For Katie. He was trying to do it right for Kate's sake, who wanted them to get along.

"That's good, just like that," Jim answered quietly. "And now we sit here and we wait. That's all. No talking, no awkward questions with even more awkward answers. No trying to prove something or needing to be defensive. You understand, Rick?"

The man blew out a breath and bobbed his head, entirely silent.

Good. Then he got it.

"We'll have a couple fish, maybe a funny story when you try to land one, and Kate thinks the best of both of us."

Rick's shoulders went down with a tangible relief. "Yes, sir."

Jim nodded.

And then he got back to the fishing.

—–


	223. Jealousy, Medication, Cats

**#293**

* * *

 _3 word prompt (going with seemingly unrelated words): Jealousy, Medication, Cats_

 _— MONALYSSA33_

* * *

The male nurse who was usually assigned to Rick's physical therapy sessions, getting him in and out of the bed, stopped her in the hall right outside his door.

"Captain?" He always seemed to avoid her eyes, ducking now and rubbing the back of his neck. "Ah."

"Marlon?" she questioned, trying to soften her voice. She was pretty sure she scared him.

He nodded, like he was summoning his courage, and then lifted his head. "Just wanted to warn you. They switched up his medication, trying to bring him around more often."

"For PT," she said. "They told me."

"Ah," Marlon said, shifting on his feet. The large black man usually had no compunction about giving Ryan or Esposito hell, like the time they had sneaked in Rick's Xbox and woke half the floor playing Halo 5. But face to face with her, and he lost all his courage. "The reason I mention it, ma'am, is that he's feisty."

She paused. Momentarily speechless. Shook her head. "Feisty?"

"Yes, that's the word for it." Marlon gave a long breath and glanced in through the open door. He was rubbing his shoulder now and she had the impression it wasn't just shyness around her this time. But _soreness._ "Just warning you is all."

"Well. Thank you." She touched his arm in gratitude; Marlon was a good guy, had been a rock these first few days after back surgery. A bullet fragment, some bone chips, they had said it would be easy, no problem.

Castle had encountered complications at every turn. Right now, they were clearing up a second infection and fighting off pneumonia, so she didn't expect Rick to be at his best.

Kate pushed on inside her husband's hospital room.

"Stop flirting with him," Castle whined from the bed. His eyelids were heavy with exhaustion after his physical therapy session. "I heard you out there. Being nice."

She suppressed the roll of her eyes in favor of a wordless greeting - an unmistakeable one as well. When her fingers combed through his hair, his eyes fell shut, and when her lips touched his, he sighed in regret.

She accepted the apology it was with equal silence, the kiss enough.

When she straightened up, his eyes dragged open.

"Rick, did you give Marlon trouble?"

"I might have fallen on him," he sighed.

This time Kate had to suppress the smile. She sank down to the mattress and he immediately rolled his body into hers. "Must be feeling pretty good for all that," she noted quietly. For him to press into her, to have the flexibility right after therapy as well, he had to be feeling good. "New drugs helping?"

"Mm." He sighed against the drag of her fingers through his hair. "Yeah. Makes me a little dizzy though. Hey, where's Lily?"

"With your other daughter," she says, smiling at him when his eyes open for that. "Alexis took her to the zoo."

"It's cold," he whined.

"It's warming up," she answered. "You know she loves the jungle cats. She's adopted that black cat that hangs out in the alley-"

"Oh, and I'm missing it," he bemoaned, looking up at her with those pathetic blue eyes. "I'm missing all the good stuff. She'll forget me."

"Oh wow, you're so melodramatic this morning," she chuckled, still stroking through his hair, easing him. She knew it was rough. They hadn't expected it to be this rough. If they'd known ahead of time, he might have waited, suffered through the nerve pain as the fragments shifted in his shoulder and against his sternum. "Must be the new meds."

"That's it, that's what it is," he murmured. Eyelids drooped again.

She leaned in and kissed his oily forehead. "You're not missing anything, promise. She's had all of her firsts, she's well into the terrible twos. You're missing temper tantrums at bath time and cranky crying in the morning. Plus she's biting everyone."

"Not that cat, I bet."

She laughed; she had needed that. Lily was emotionally immature, as all toddlers were, but Kate was having a rough time of single parenthood these last few weeks. Dealing with illogical tantrums, with such high drama and higher shrieks wasn't in her wheelhouse.

"We miss you," she told him quietly. "So stop crashing on top of your PT assistant, Rick. Need his help."

"Is that why you're flirting with him?" he sighed. "For me? That's so sweet, Kate."

She laughed, brushed another kiss along his eyebrow. "That's what it is, Rick. That's all it is."

His eyes had fallen shut, but his lips kept mumbling of course. "When I get home, I'm buying Lily her cat."

"Mm. We'll see."

—–


	224. Happy Valentines Day

#294

* * *

 _3 word prompt: Happy Valentines Day_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

Usually, she's the one crawling into bed at obscene hours. Not Rick.

But he has been lately. The itch has him. The muse, he more calls it in more generous times, times when it doesn't keep him wide awake and then send him lurching out of bed to get down one more scene that just won't leave him alone.

He's writing at midnight when she finally gets home from an emergency press briefing. He's writing an hour later when she calls from the bedroom to _just stop already,_ he's writing at two a.m. when his eyes are burning and beginning to lose their place on the screen.

The scenes spill out. Words stuttering. Sometimes not even fast enough. He leaves ellipses for material he's omitting due to his time crunch. Missing words that won't come in the half a heartbeat he allows for recollection. _Feels like dilapidated, same sounds, but biology instead of–_

 _No, moving on …_

(Was it debilitated? Yes, darn. Too late now to go back. Still writing.)

On and on. He plows through Nikki Heat pistol whipping her assailant, bringing him down. He comes out the other side with the resurrected Storm, reunites them. Not his favorite, this idea, but it has interesting consequences for Rook. Or rather, side effects. Rook is his own man; he goes his own way. Even against Rick's wishes.

Another scene is expunged from his brain, scrubbed out with words and steady staccato of type. He comes to a minor resolution and Nikki is wiped out; so is Castle's inspiration.

Turned off like a faucet, gone.

He had stuff in his brain, bubbling back there, just thirty seconds ago. A point to this. But it's evaporated. Curled into smoke.

Rick sits at his desk for a long minute, staring at the last word he wrote _incorrigible_ and waiting for it to resume, kick back into gear.

It doesn't.

He saves three times reflexively, shuts the laptop lid, stands up. His back spasms and then allows him to straighten. He staggers once on a half-asleep foot, a lick of pain at his instep.

He crawls into bed. Kate stirs and shifts a knee, but doesn't open her eyes, doesn't seem to wake. He arranges himself carefully on his side - he hasn't brushed his teeth or even put on real pajamas, but he's too tired now - he faces the wall and blinks somnolently until his eyes slam shut.

Exhausted. He's crashed. There was supposed to be more but now there is not.

He doesn't know how long he's lying there, brain tumbling towards darkness, the shut down almost complete, when the darkness unfolds.

Her warmth presses into his back, her arm slides around his ribs.

Her lips press at his nape and hold there, warm. Her fingers splay at his sternum.

He covers her hand with his own and she sighs. "Happy Valentine's Day, Rick."

"Oh," he croaks. "Oh, no."

"Too busy," she says. Her voice is rough with sleep. "Too tired. Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," he breathes, astonishment clearing out his crammed-full-of-plot brain. "Tomorrow."

She scratches lightly at his chest and stays spooned to his back.

He forgot. And maybe she did too.

"We had reservations," he tells her in the darkness. Like a promise. Because it _is_.

"I know." She didn't know specifically, but she knows he would have, knows he's not that bad, that _they_ are not that bad. "Sleep."

"Yeah." Life happens sometimes. It's not pretty, but it's not bad either.

He'll make it up to them tomorrow.

—–


	225. Castle, Jake, Reece

**#296**

* * *

 _Three words prompt: Castle, Jake, Reece_

 _— ANONYMOUS_

* * *

It's the first time Kate will be leaving him alone with the twins for the night. She has a mother-daughter thing with Lily at the Russian Tea Room, complete with slumber party, and his two girls are upstairs packing, their dark heads together.

He's not sure he's ready for this. There was no problem with Alexis, taking care of his poor mother-orphaned baby daughter all by himself. And Lily's arrival, poorly timed as it was, never confounded him; Lily has always been such a presence in their home that she can't be overlooked or missed.

But these boys. They're something else.

At six months old, they have such disparate needs, such wildly different personalities, that they seem to be more than merely double. Twins are exponential. They multiply rather than merely add one more integer to the equation.

Reece will be fussy and then Jake wants to roll off the play mat while Rick isn't looking. And when he catches Jake, Reece is crying for some reason he's missed. He'll try to console Reece, picking him up to hold him close, and Jake is squalling like he's been insulted.

It's nonstop. One goes one way, the other another.

He can't do this.

He's not ready.

All night alone? He needs another pair of hands for this. He needs-

"You got this."

Rick jerks his head up ands finds his wife standing at the threshold of the office turned nursery. He gives her a weak smile and she slips inside the room, stands quietly beside him.

"I don't got this," he whispers.

The babies are still asleep, the last hour or so of their afternoon nap. Jake can't be woken by mere conversation, but Reece is the one who has trouble staying asleep. Trouble falling asleep too.

"You're going to be fine," she murmurs. Her arm slides around his waist, palm warm through the material of his plaid shirt. "Just fine, Rick."

"I'll be outnumbered. I've never been outnumbered before."

She chuckles softly, but he's not saying it for laughs. Kate's lips brush his jaw, her hair tickling his ear. "You? You don't know the meaning of outnumbered. You never give up."

"I'm giving up," he whispers fiercely. "I need a tag team. Tap in, Beckett."

She laughs at that, loud enough that Reece squirms. They both step back instinctively, as one, and her hand comes to his, squeezing. "Tap in when Lil and I get home tomorrow morning. Besides, how do you think I'll feel, surrounded by ballet princesses?"

"Speaking Russian," he mutters. "Your whole Russian culture and language class is at this thing, and you _love_ that Lily adores it. So don't give me that."

She hides her smile and tugs him out of the room so they can talk more freely. He goes only because staring down two sleeping babies is making him lose his nerve.

Kate laces her fingers through his, pulls him to the living room where her bag is already packed and ready. She reaches up and strokes through his hair, a thumb rubbing against his eyebrow. "I'd say you looked as tense as a feral cat, but you're more teddy bear these days."

"And you've used that line before," he murmurs. Her lips twitch and she lightly kisses him with that mouth.

He takes a deep breath, sliding his arms around her.

Once the baby powder smell is out of his nose and the hum of the lullaby machine is a distant memory, his body releases some of its tension, his shoulders come down.

"That's better it," she says softly. "Much better. You okay?"

"Yeah. Panicked for a second."

"Mm." She cups the side of his face for a heartbeat, and her eyes on his suddenly grow serious, flinty. "Don't let anything happen to my babies, Rick Castle." She pats his cheek, a little harder now. "You hear me?"

"That's so encouraging, Beckett. Thanks a lot."

"Mommy! Where'd you go?" Lily's voice carries from her bedroom.

Kate gives him a beaming smile and calls back to the girl. "Downstairs, sweetheart." She lifts on her toes to lightly kiss his lips. "They better have all their little fingers and toes when I get home."

"Jeez, woman." He grips her by the hips and tugs her hard into him, glaring down at her. "Way to really build up my confidence there."

"Just messing with you," she smiles. Another light kiss as if to soothe, but he claims something deeper, fiercer. He needs it. He needs her passion and certainty not her tease.

She always has been unmerciful.

He doesn't want her any other way. She demands better of him, even now, even in this.

And that's how he knows he'll survive the night alone with the boys.

—–

 **A/N:** This will be the last prompt fill on this story post. I'll create a new Vignettes 2 because I've noticed that ffnet gets very confused with the chapters and posting and reviews, etc. Since it's getting difficult for even me to see these on, for example, Pocket Fic, I'm assuming you guys are having trouble reading on your phones as well.

But, never fear, I have more posted on tumblr. Current number is 319. If you have a three word prompt, you can always go to my tumblr site (writingwell dot tumblr dot com) and submit it anonymously, which means you don't need a tumblr account to ask for more.

Also, check out my Amazon author page (Laura Bontrager) for my new book **Formerly Known As.**


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